


Quartet

by Dive



Category: The Legend of Zelda & Related Fandoms, The Legend of Zelda: Breath of the Wild
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant, Drama, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, I don't think you understand what I mean by slow burn, POV Multiple, Pining, Pre-Calamity Ganon, Romance, Slow Burn, Tragedy, long long long, no betas we die like men, yes I am late to the party
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-23
Updated: 2020-11-27
Packaged: 2021-03-04 04:34:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 23,150
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24797758
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dive/pseuds/Dive
Summary: The chosen hero finds his sword. The princess can't seem to make anything work and is so god damn distracted these days.Destiny is set in motion. The clock ticks a second closer to midnight.---Or, an exploration into what it means to share the weight of the world, one season at a time.
Relationships: Link/Zelda (Legend of Zelda)
Comments: 21
Kudos: 38





	1. 'The Soil Sings To You

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, another long fic about pre-game. Canon Compliant, the whole bit. You might be wondering, mate, why write another one? Aren't there hundreds that tread this same territory? Yes that is true. 
> 
> BUT 
> 
> Seems that if you want a story done the way you want it, you might as well just write it yourself. Which is what I'm doing. Expect alternating POVs, the slowest of burns, Very little action, politics, religion, mythology, lots of worldbuilding, long unrequited glances, a focus on character growth, and of course two idiots.
> 
> I started this because I wanted desperately to hear the voices of Link and Zelda more. There's so much offered to us in the recovered memories, but distinctly not enough. And there are things unexplored in even my favorite fics that I cannot help but want to write about myself. Political conflict, Zelda's life before coming into her destiny, class separation, shared trauma, racism, mythology... this world is rich and I want to explore it. 
> 
> Stick around if that's up your alley. I'd love to have you.

It begins, if it's even possible to mark the start of the apocalypse, in a dream. 

When the sumptuous colors of a sunrise move backwards, he knows something's off. It is night again and he, sword in hand, is fearful. A screech covers the skyline, echoing in his ears. He looks up and realizes there are no stars. Instead, a thick cloud unfurls, purple and heavy. Peaks of mountains rise higher than ever before. 

Gripping the blade, he feels sweat coming off his palms. The clammy shock of flight overtakes him and he starts running. Someone close chuckles, swooping like a hawk above him. He zigs. Is he prey? His steps are slow, like he's underwater. Sounds like it too. The length of the field—ah, he didn't even know he was in a field—stretches farther than he thought possible. And his legs, curse them, refuse to move. He screams, yelling at them to get going. The dim chuckle is coming closer again. That voice is familiar. The sword slips from his hands and he doesn't turn his head as he tries to find cover. Up ahead, a forest. Good, he thinks. 

He ducks into the brush, pressing up against a tree trunk. His breath is the only sound for miles now, but the darkness has not waned. If anything, the cloud has fallen lower and narrowed as if sentient. It's following him. Without a pause he tears off, pushing branches out of his face. They drape shadows over him, spooking him. He hears footsteps. No, he hears hooves. 

_And they're growing louder._

He sprints harder and sees the beginnings of a clearing. A shadowy mist sits before him, but it looks inviting. A voice again, but it's different. He can't make out the words. The mist seems to put out its hand, beckoning him forward. The hooves are right behind him. 

As he's about to enter what seems like safety, something pulls on his shoulder and he has no choice but to look behind and see what. It's a hand attached to a bony, veiny arm. A body, a woman's body, its face decayed and vapid. She has no eyes. The hooves are still following. Rising from the mist calls an urgent voice. It knows him. The woman opens her mouth and out crawl three spiders. One goes from her face to her arm to his shoulder to his lips. He chokes on it.

Link jolts awake, sitting up in bed. Instinctively, his right hand reaches for a knife but comes up empty. His eyes dart about, the other hand grasping at his throat and shoulder, checking for a bug or anything. There's only his undershirt, his fingers finding tears he needs to mend soon. 

It was a dream, he realizes, as his eyes adjust to the pitch-black darkness of the knight's sleeping quarters. He runs a hand over his arms and notices his sweat laced skin, heavy and damp from the unease. He sighs, pulling his covers off and pulling his legs up closer to his face. His pulse radiates through his bones. 

Evidently his dreaming disturbed more than himself. From the adjacent cot, Floren roughly grumbles, "Oi Link, fuck all with the rattling. Your bed's louder than a keese screech. Some of us are trying to sleep." 

Link bites back some half-awake whispered retort. He doesn't want to wake anyone else or start something not worth the skirmish. But still, he's shaken. He feels the spider on his tongue, racing down his gullet. His mouth dry and sour with night breath, he swishes water through his teeth from the skein on his bed frame before swallowing and laying back down. 

_What was that?_ He wonders, trying to close his eyes. Every time he does, those empty eyes appear, boring holes into him. Something deep within him quakes, a slumbering piece of him he didn't know existed. If he were more attuned, perhaps he would feel it awakening in him and in the ground, the very soil of Hyrule rich with anticipation. 

Instead, he tries to rest again. The hours pass slowly. Eventually, he tumbles into sleep, but not before pieces click into place and he realizes the voice was speaking in Old Hylian. Though he's rusty, two sentences punctuate his thoughts: _The blade is sharp again,_ it said. _Come take what is yours._

In the morning the Garrison General calls Link into his office, his face grimly set, and informs Link his father passed away two nights ago while riding home to Hateno for a month-long leave from the Royal Guard. A heart attack. He was forty-five. It's a shock to everyone. 

The General offers his condolences and a story of his time in the Royal Guard with Link's father. How deliberate, cautious, and affable he was during a state visit to Zora's Domain. In a rare show of emotion, the General puts his hand on Link's shoulder and, thinking of his own son barely a few years older than this boy before him and still only a squire with so much less weight to carry, says, "He was a good man and those who knew him will miss him dearly."

Later he will cry alone in the barracks, sitting on his cot. For now, Link nods and thinks of the face in his dreams. _Omen_.

* * *

One month later he will have the dream again. Link will have gone home to mourn, sent on his own leave like his father. In time, he will have little recollection of this time, except for holding his sister's hand as she cried in front of the casket and watching the sun leave its last touch on his father's tombstone before Link rides back to the garrison, certain not to return until he holds a candle to his old man. 

By the time he arrives on his horse, eyes dusty and worn and harder than before, his 15th name day will have passed unceremoniously. He will have asked for no fanfare at home, and no one on the road would know it. Instead he will have prayed to the goddesses, the sky dim without a moon. He will have made sure to think of his father's soul, wherever it may be—whether in Hyrule's plains or gone from this earthly domain. 

Like a hand prods him in the stem of his brain, his mind will have cast towards Farore. After all, his name day nearly coincides with Mid-Far, when the day is as long as the night and the weather leans closer into Din's dizzying swelter and sun. Here on a hill above an inn in West Necluda where no one bothers to learn his name, Link will have looked over the dark grass that thrum with the night and stars and thank Farore for her kindness and love, and that he may continue to live under her season for many years to come. That he may witness the renewal of life, the flowers and animals returning to what once slept in Nayru's cold bosom. That he will find his own life in these green, jaunty days. 

For the first time in weeks, he will have felt peace. 

The next day he will have woken at dawn, ridden hard to the Kolomo Garrison, and reestablished himself within the ranks. Link will have gone to the General's office to speak privately, inquire about what he has missed, any duties he would like Link to take up himself. Everyone there who was friendly with him beforehand will greet him kindly, making sure to avoid any unsavory topics. Sometimes older than him by decades, many will remember their own mothers and fathers lost to the soil and, seeing this boy walking faux-strongly around the mess hall, will not wish to exact on him any more pain than necessary. 

Those who were not friendly will dread his return to exercises. Specifically, a fair number of younger recruits—younger being Link's age and a few years older—who have not received similar acclaim. Nor do they have the skill, but when have the facts ever kept someone from jealousy? 

That night, Link will have gone to bed, pleased to be back in the aching familiarity of routine, of day in day out exercises, training, and rules. He will have fallen asleep in the middle of listening to Terence's tale of when he and a few others had been sent to Goponga while Link was away and found a lovely spot to watch the waves and the women and well—Link's already asleep, but he's a smart one. He could've seen the line this was taking, much like you. He smiles in his sleep anyhow. 

Of course, before dawn he shoots awake, eyes flooded with terror. _Just a dream_ pops into his head quicker this time, which reminds him _I've had this dream before_. 

And then: _Take what is yours_ rattles so loudly in his head, in a voice not his own, he thinks it was shouted across the room. No one stirs. 

Well, he's wide awake now. No turning back, he puts on a shirt, pulls his boots out from under his bed, and walks out of the quarters. There's little to no light yet, the moon a sliver, but he aims to keep sleep from his eyes and exercise this... demon away. Link's never been terribly superstitious, but his father once said a recurring dream was someone or something trying to speak to you. _Whether they want to direct you or destroy you, there's no telling_ , his father said, eyes boring into young Link with the shrewd twinkle he was known for, _but either you listen or you get rid of it_. Link opts for the latter. 

Upon exiting the garrison he exchanges pleasant greetings with the watchman at the front gate, during which the watch cautions Link from heading northwest up near Whistling Hill. There have been sightings of Moblins coming out in numbers and laying waste to the land and pillaging the nearby towns. Why haven't we taken care of it yet? Well, there's been a silly pride issue of the Hyrule Garrison marking it as _their_ territory and the General has to deal with some ancient bylaws in regional governance. But now instead of backing down, the Hyrule Garrison has sent an envoy over to inspect us and well, babysit us. Anyway, would Link keep close if he's going off alone? 

Link promises he is simply going for a run around the lake, hoping to get a good 10 km in before the rest of his unit wakes. Though Link does have a dagger on him if anything comes up. 

It's a windy morning, the air pushing against his knees and hair, leaving a brisk chill in his spine. It's euphoric. He breathes deeply as he runs, watching the tree line on either side. Even though he should be careful, he wants to be careless. Scratch an itch. _Take what is yours_ pops back in, and in his mind's eye he sees a gleaming sharp line cus through underbrush, through skin and bones. Blood squeals out of an arm and a distant beast roars. He shudders and raises his tempo, running hard enough to push anything within him out.

On the western edge of the lake as the sun begins to turn the sky over, not yet to the horizon but creeping closer, Link sees the chimney smoke of farmers in Gatepost Town, and he thinks of many Din's Days ago with his father and sister.

At the age of 10 he had been cast into the world of men, and then several months had passed to varying success. Sure, he remembers his abilities in sparring and archery were prodigious, but he was a lonely boy, years younger than even the youngest squire of 15. Gone were the years he spent in Zora's Domain playing dive-and-go with his Zoran friends under the waterfalls. He spent many hours training, in one-on-one class with a tutor, and sitting on his bed, rereading letters from his father. To make matters worse, he had been informed a few days into Din's Season that the Sheikah tribe of old had become interested in his prowess and wished to train him in the _Way of the Eye_ the General—still the same man now—had said ominously. When pressed he had no answer. "They're a kooky bunch, but I'm sure a boy as traveled as you knew that already. Regardless, this is a great honor." 

With this news in head, his father had brought his sister along to see the Menoat Din's Day Festival, known throughout the land for its spectacular fireworks, all-night dancing, troves of food stands and wares, and an appearance by the majesty himself—as became tradition after the passing of the Queen to visit her hometown and resting place each year. This of course was what made it so easy for Link's father to scoop him up and go. As a royal guard, it was his duty to be in Menoat at his King's side. 

In his mid-run haze, Link remembers picking up Aryl to put her on his shoulders. They stood in the crowd as the parade went by, fire dancers and stilt-walkers crossing between the two parallel crowds down the lane, laughter and exclamations punctuating each more daring move. Link chomped on a boar kebab, the spicy peppers making his eyes teary. For a day or two, he would feel childlike, like he was back at home in Hateno, skipping rocks on the pond by the house with neighbors. If there was more to his childhood he would've remembered it, but by then he was not sure what being a kid was supposed to look like. Probably more friends, goofing off, candies, and less slicing of a dummy's arms. 

"Look there's dad!" Aryl yelled, waving her arms and nearly toppling her brother. And sure it was, leading the final curtain of the parade, his sword in hand and fully clad in his finest armor. Behind him stamped the rest of the royal guard and behind them, cloaked servants carried the King on a palanquin. 

"Oh, and the King," Aryl said with disinterest. Link rolled his eyes. Count on his sister to think a divinely chosen lord had nothing on their father. 

Link had seen the King before, many times actually. In the early days of his father's courtly knighthood—as opposed to the more dangerous, wildling knights strewn across the land in search of riches and glory—when he was still rising through the ranks of the Royal Guard, Sir Owun had met his wife and started a family in Castle Town, the city that sat in front of Hyrule Castle. Link had been born there and grew up in those streets where he and other kids would crowd to see the King and Queen trot through, hoping to catch a glimpse of the late beauty and her white horse. He had even met them a few times, at events where his father received honors and the few tourneys Link won before he went 'pro,' as they say. And of course, there was the time he had been put forward on display. 

Things changed when his father ascended to Captain, at which point Sir Owun saw his future laid out and sought more space for his growing family. He moved them further out into the country, a few days ride from the Castle into a village where he received a small parcel of land from the King as thanks for his exceptional duty. There Aryl was born. 

In short, Link knew the King's face well. He was a massive man, wide, tall, and formidable, with a long bushy white beard and hard eyes that could twinkle if you gave him a reason. But tonight his eyes did not leave the horizon. There was a determined severity that hung around him. He reminded Link of the man from a horror tale told he could not look away from the light far out in the wilderness, lest a dark spirit smites him.

However, Link was caught on the palanquin that followed a few paces behind and to the left. It carried another figure he had supposedly met once or twice, though he could not remember now. The Princess Zelda Hyrule, the only offspring of the Queen and King, in whose blood the Goddess rang. 

(There is little reason to describe her. If you are reading this, you know what she looks like. But if you would prefer a bit of exposition, let me offer this: in Link's eyes he saw a girl upon whose crown rested a triangle made of four triangles—yes, a fourth of nothing—the royal crest. When he looked upon it fell through Link an urgent yearning. And when he saw her straight blonde hair parted in the middle, her emerald eyes shining with purpose, as she knelt on the palanquin in a dress of the most resplendent royal blue, he felt a different sort of yearning, deeper in his chest. For all his understanding of the blade and bow, for all his reading of military tactics, and his impressive body control, he was still a young boy. This feeling was new and unfamiliar to him. But he felt his father somewhere behind him, from whom his understanding of duty was born, and this realization shot hot shame through his face. Link clawed his eyes away from her to look at the delicate lace that wrapped the palanquin.)

"And the Princess!" Aryl shouted, waving at her. 

As if she heard Aryl, the Princess looked over and saw the child on Link's shoulders. She did not smile but stared. Her eyes were mute and distant, her lips drawn into a thin line. When Aryl quit her waving she turned back to face forward, modeling her father. 

"Oh wow she's pretty," Aryl said, tapping Link on the forehead and looking down at him. "I hope I'm that pretty when I'm older."

"Older?" Link said. "She's my age, you know."

Aryl pulled on his shoulders, signaling him to lower her to the ground. "Huh, really? She looked way more older than you."

She put her finger to her chin, mocking contemplation. "Must be 'cause she's so princessly and you're not."

"Thanks?" Link says, bewildered. 

"Let's go find Dad!" And off she ran, Link holding her wildberry kringle wrapped in paper and following swiftly behind her. 

Lost in this warm memory, Link doesn't register the path has taken him past Gatepost Town altogether. He's nearly through a full lap around the lake. As he catches up to his present, he does wonder about Aryl and how she is. 9 years old and without her brother during one of the worst periods of their lives. For the beginning of his career—though Link still doesn't see it as a job because it's mostly training—Link felt lonely and sad to be away from his home and family, but he didn't think much of how that hurt Aryl. At least until he was home again. Seeing her older, with a book or a fishing pole always in hand, her hair short and one ear pierced like her brother, Link was overcome with the recognition she was a person, whole and full of thoughts. He had been selfish for so long. He had missed out on so much. He didn't want to miss anything else. 

As he passes the Garrison for a second time, Link resolves to write a letter to Aryl soon. Link was—to his empty surprise—the man of the family now. It would do Aryl well to have him closer than before. She deserved all he could give her. 

He runs on then, his dream forgotten to him, though the rhythm of his feet hitting the ground matches the phrase ringing through his head. Left right left right ( _again_ ) left right left right. 

On the northernmost point of the Lake Kolomo, where the meadow ends and the forest reappears, Link can see through it. Deforestation has carved out a large portion of the Hyrule plains, much to disdain. And the ones left are of a peculiar green, hanging heavily over the ground. 

Even with minor tree covering, Link hears the presence of another before he sees them. A figure moves swiftly into the path behind Link. Before his conscious catches up Link knows it's a human. A Bokoblin can't be that quiet, nor does he hear their trademark snorts. He hears branches and leaves rustling—an arm raising. He reacts, turning around with his left arm raised and it catches the wrist of his assailant, jerking the sword—an ornate one with a blood-red gem in the pommel, Link registers lazily—out of his hand. Caught off guard, the man's eyes widen and it's all Link needs to know to plant his right foot behind the man and push him back with his right hand. The man topples over, landing with a dull thud. This all happens in less than a second. 

Picking up the fallen sword, Link points it at the man, his stance shifting to defense. 

The man groans, lifting himself onto his elbows and Link notices he's less of a man and more of a teenager with a thin, patchy beard and a few acne scars lining his temples. Link flips the sword around and catches the flat of the blade between his index finger and thumb, offering it to the boy. 

"You surprised me," Link says, by way of an apology. 

The boy huffs and stands up quickly. His brown hair is cut harshly on the sides and he's a foot or so taller than Link. He notes the boy's necklace has fallen out of his shirt, revealing a medallion shaped like a crescent moon but with a swirl overlapping it—the symbol of the Akkala region and its people. 

The boy narrows his eyes at the sword before looking at Link. "So you're the wunderkind, hm?"

"Sorry?" Link asks.

"I arrived at the Garrison a week ago, but all I've heard is talk of the boy with goddess-blessed skill who's on his way to making Captain, but he was not even here." 

"How do you know that's me?"

The boy huffs again and Link realizes that noise annoys him. "I had plans to come out early anyway—I'm from the Hyrule Garrison and here to take the reins regarding the situation at Whistling Hill—and I heard from the watch you were out here. Well, when I saw you running by I thought what a perfect chance."

"A perfect chance for what?" Link asks, befuddled. 

The boy smiles sardonically. "To test your skill and see if the rumors were true."

Link frowns and does not speak. 

The boy continues, "You're pretty all right. But I've seen better."

Link resists the urge to snort.

"Regardless, you'd be smart not to attack me again. I am your superior after all."

Not one to show his cards, Link raises his eyebrows and says, "You ambushed me."

"As if that matters. And I was right about you anyway, so what's the foul. Plus, don't you know who I am?" The boy huffs a third time. 

Though we know Link for his composure and selective silence, he is still a young man, fifteen at that, and no matter how buried he keeps his emotions below duty, he's only human. At the other boy's provocation, Link narrows his eyes. He's never liked any of the other soldiers who act as if they are worth their merit by title alone. The most impressive leaders are the most humble, he has thought all his life.

"No, I don't." Link flips the sword around again, catching the hilt and he slices forward. The blade cuts the leather rope of the boy's necklace. It falls to the ground as Link drops the sword. 

The boy jumps back in shock before outrage sinks into his eyes.

"What was that for?" He snarls.

Link smiles with the same sardonic smile his foil offered him. "To test your skill." 

He then turns and continues his run. 

By the time Link has bathed, the rest of his small legion of fifteen—a crew of soldiers who take the same duties and house in the same quarters as Link—are up and dressed for the day. They eat breakfast in the mess hall and they remain rather quiet, Link's depth of solitude and sadness coming off in waves. Only one speaks to him, Sir Garit, one of the oldest.

"You look dead tired little one. Only a month to mourn? They don't give us enough. After years at this, that's all I've learned. Those in power think we can skim by. They expect more from us than we could ever give them. Or even expect from them."

Link nods in all the right places but feels strangely dumb to it. Garit's always been a good man, especially kind to Link, but he's always been a bit too concerned about the politics of it all. Especially for a lowborn Knight. 

After morning spear drills when they break another finally speaks. It's a squire, a boy a year or so older than Link who has a face sketched with bright freckles, who runs up to them from down a hallway. 

"Lieutenant," he says and bows sharply before Link, unsurprisingly bitter about assenting to someone younger than him. "The General wishes to see you in his office."

Link bows his head and the page runs off. 

"Already in a nasty spot of trouble are ya, Link?" Floren jokes, breaking the silence that has stretched all through the morning. A couple of the men laugh. Link grins without his teeth. 

"I've got to keep up my reputation," is all he offers and more men chortle. 

Link knocks twice on the General's door before he hears a crisp "come in" and does so. 

"Ah good, Lieutenant you are prompt," the General says and Link notices the man sitting in one of the two other chairs in the room. The General takes off his glasses and puts his papers down. There are two glasses on the desk and the General is red in the face. His brow is furrowed and his words clipped. "I want you to meet someone."

(Oh come now, you know who it is). The man sitting in the chair in front of his desk stands and turns. The teenager from the woods sports a perfectly amiable smile and eyes that yell, _bet you didn't expect that now, did you?_

"How do you do, Lieutenant?" He says with performed warmth. "I've heard so much about you."

For all the annoyance boiling in his blood, Link doesn't miss a beat. He reaches out to shake the boy's hand, feigning ignorance. "How do you do."

"Link," the General says. His voice is dull and Link knows for certain they were arguing before. "This is Colonel Tybout, from the Hyrule Garrison. He's here to inspect the Garrison and take lead on the Whistling Hill situation." 

Colonel Tybout smiles even wider. His necklace is conspicuously absent. "I've been here about a week, but I was awfully excited to finally meet you. Of course, nearly every knight in every fort knows about the young man who's already a lieutenant and has done so by his own merit."

Link releases the Colonel's hand and says, "You honor me, sir when I have yet to do anything worth such honor."

He means it, honestly. Link may be good in the training yards and out in controlled field expeditions, but he's yet to go on a quest or do much except uproot a few monster hideaways. At times it needles him how much he's helped the army and himself, but he's never received the thanks of a regular citizen. 

"Nonsense! We've all heard talk of your skill with the blade. I can't wait to see it for myself," Colonel Tybout exclaims and smiles again kindly. The man's a good actor. If Link hadn't met him earlier, he might've not caught onto his routine. 

The General coughs and they both turn to him. "The Colonel has asked specifically for you to be his second when we attack Whistling Hill."

Colonel Tybout has the audacity to look away bashfully. "I had heard so much of your skill and well, what can I say, I'm quite the fan. So I thought, why not put you to good use?"

He phrases it so casually that Link knows it's a challenge. Back down or buck up? Link smiles. "I appreciate it and am readily up for the task."

Colonel Tybout smiles his cagey smile again. "Fantastic! I cannot wait to share my plans with you. Of course, you might not have much say in them but I'm sure you'll be pleased to follow, as any good soldier." 

Link nods sharply without changing expression. "Of course, sir."

"Colonel," the General says, "now that that's settled, would you mind giving the Lieutenant and me the room? I have some private matters I'd like to discuss with him."

Colonel Tybout nods and smiles a final time before informing Link he'd like to see him the next day for some light tactical discussion. He then exits the room. Immediately, the General's shoulders slump and he sits down. 

"The nerve," he murmurs, almost to himself. He looks up at Link and laughs one harsh syllable. "Be careful of that one, Link."

"Sir?" Link asks. 

"He's cocky and might I say foolish. Though that does not leave this room," He adds hastily, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "They sent him over here to what, take notes on our moves? He's breathing down my neck like a watchdog. One false move—"

He breaks off and sighs. 

"How is a man that young already a Colonel?"

The General laughs again bitterly and picks up a ceremonial dagger he keeps on his desk. He deftly balances it, playing with the weight like a stress reliever. "Colonel Tybout _Akkala_ , the youngest son of Lord Baldric from his second marriage. There is a reason he has reached this point in his career and no, it has little do to with skill." 

Link shifts, his hands behind his back. "Should you be telling me this?" 

The General frowns. "Perhaps not, but there's a reason he picked you and it has much to do with you. If he's even half like his father, he'll be vindictive and cunning. So again, I'm warning you Link. Try not to cross him." 

Link's head is like a box of lint quickly emptying. _Already did._

It is curious, however, that Tybout obviously didn't mention anything about this morning to the General. Seems that if he wants to make Link pay for his transgression, it will be on his terms. 

"I will not," Link promises, amending his previous mistake by going the next day to essentially sit at Tybout's feet as he drones on about his masterful plans. The following weekend, the mission goes off without a hitch and the bokoblins, moblins, even the loose lizaflos, are rooted out and pushed deeper into the Bottomless Swamp from which they may never return. It goes so well, in fact, that Colonel Tybout Akkala is commended for his bravery and brilliance. _In fact_ , because of his resourcefulness, he is invited to remain at the Kolomo Garrison and ascend to a higher position. He does.

* * *

A full year passes and every two weeks like clockwork he has the dream. It has not changed once, not the ending, not the beginning, not the words—that angers Link more than anything else. The other soldiers learn not to mess with him every full and new moon. Once, one recruit joked in earshot that it was "his time of the month" but after receiving one of the largest, darkest bruises in the training grounds, nobody has said anything about it around Link since. 

In that year, Colonel Tybout has made it a personal goal to break Link. Whether it's pointing out formal issues, citing him for uniform infractions, or doling out the most menial tasks, the Colonel seems to think these are what does Link in. But really, what most aggravates him is how rarely since that mission has Link left the garrison. Colonel Tybout has succeeded in making Link feel his age as he is constantly passed up on patrols for his older compatriots.

During all of this Link trains rigorously, goes into town rarely, and spends his off time meditating the way the Sheikah taught him years ago. Often he goes through the Warrior movements to empty his mind—of his dreams, of his new rival, and occasionally of his father, whose memory hangs heavily in front of him both like a goal and a barrier. 

Link both wishes he would fade and fears letting go of him entirely. And though he writes to Aryl more, his heart aches to be without family entirely. It's selfish, he knows, but he's sixteen and jittery. 

It's coming up on Nayru's Season when the General calls him into his office for the first time in a year. 

"I'm being replaced," he says simply. 

Link's mouth opens and closes. 

"By Colonel Tybout," the General continues.

Link is characteristically silent at that as well. 

"I'll be making the announcement later today."

"Why are you telling me this then?" Link asks, his anger catching up before his brain does. 

"Because he's planning to transfer you to Castletown."

Link balks at that. Oh, of course he would do that. Forget passing him over on patrols, missions. The best way to strip someone of their potential? Give them the honor of training in the Royal Guard in Castletown, i.e. the least eventful place in the kingdom. Nothing ever happens in Castletown. It's all parade and party duty. What more, it's career suicide. Once you're used to the Royal Guard life, it's hard for any fort in the country to trust you're prepared for active duty. Well, here's the punishment for crossing him, finally in sight. Link would be relieved to learn that issue's dealt with, if not for his rage. 

"How can he do this to you? Can't you stop him?" Link asks. His fists tighten. 

The General smiles sadly. "Link, do you know why a man of my rank took a job often reserved for Majors? Because I wanted to retire in the country. I'm old. There's no way around it. Gone is the passion for war and battle and being in the thick of it. I don't want to fight anymore, and I'm sorry about that. But this was a few years off anyway. He's giving me the chance to retire and I'll take it."

Link looks thoughtfully at the floor. He ruminates on what was said before asking, "and me?"

"You'll follow your father's footsteps," he says, emoting a sense of pride. "He was a young royal guard and you will be even younger. Perhaps Captain is a few years within reach."

"He doesn't deserve to get away with this," Link says stubbornly.

The General laughs. "I know you don't like him, and yes he's young and cocky. But if you really want to stick it to him, you'll rise higher in Castletown than he could've."

Suddenly, Link sees how old the General really is. His hair is gray, his skin pale and wrinkled. His eyes are dim like he's going blind.

At sixteen, Link does not go to Castletown. He packs, of course. He doesn't put up a fight. When he leaves with his bag over his shoulder, he shakes hands with all the men in his company, some of whom give him mead, meats, and other gifts. Floren, that absolute madman, offers up the name of his favorite brothel. Link tries desperately to forget it. 

He leaves without saying good-bye to the Colonel who probably looks unbelievably smug. But Link does not look back (for now). 

On the way to Castletown, his heart begins to expand in ways he did not remember possible. Grief strikes him when he lays down the first night to sleep in his bedroll, the fire he put out hissing and smoking with death. A weight sits on his chest and for the first time since he was home in Hateno, he cries again. He knew he was avoiding his feelings, but the open road opens wounds. 

That night this ache morphs into a hook that sews into his neck. This hook says, _I'm not doing enough_. Death of loved ones often illuminates a lack, and here, in the dark with Nayru's cold breath on the landscape, wisdom cracks like thunder and showers over him. Six years of his life he's given to the army, to training, to preparing—and for what? Who has he helped? Himself and those of a higher rank. No, he won't be that boy anymore. If his father's shadow wants to go to Castletown, so be it. Link will make his own path. One that embraces this guilt and makes up for the lack. He will provide for Hyrule with the skills he was given, even if that means going it alone. 

With this in heart, the next morning he deserts. It's much less dramatic than it sounds. He cleans his campsite, shoulders his pack, grips his sword, and heads off west on his horse, to where the hook pulls him along, instead of north to Hyrule Castle. His father's shadow decides to follow but is not heavy on his back anymore. 

Over the next several months he will stop and do what he can where he is. In the Dalite Forest, he searches for a rare mushroom to heal a sickly village, coming back scratched by Lizaflo horns but alive. An elderly woman holds his hand and thanks him. In Sanidin Park he kneels, prays, and speaks with the guards about monsters in Nima that he dispatches of immediately. On Satori Mountain he watches the Lord of the Mountain and bows to it. The Lord bows back.

He fords the Temio River to the Sage Temple, where he sits with the monks and listens to their stories of the old world. There they teach him of the meaning of the triforce, the winds of the past, the twilight season. In exchange, he sticks a spear through the eye of the Hinox that terrorizes the nearby forest where their favorite berries grow wild. _Where are you off to now?_ One monk asks when he leaves. Link shrugs. _I'm just following along_. 

In Tabantha he hears for the first time of the Divine Beasts, whispered between two traders who have come from Rito Village. He follows the path up to there, the hook taut every morning. On the way, he saves a man from falling off the Kolami Bridge. His reward is a jar of Goron spice. At the Rito Inn, he meets a family whose child asks for a few sword tips. He does and the mother lets him hold their infant who does not cry but looks silently into his eyes, curious. _He's never that calm around others_ , she marvels. Among the bird-folk, he helps them excavate a great, monstrous raptor of material beyond words and takes care of a meddlesome fish-beast that found its way into the lake below the village. He receives overwhelming praise for his sword work. He makes many friends and one enemy. 

Still: the dream sits in his head now weekly and every step he takes echoes the command. _Take what is yours_ he hears endlessly but refuses to follow it until he is certain he has earned it. He doesn't know when he will know, but he doesn't have to.

Come Farore's Season he hears through the grapevine that they're excavating another Divine Beast in Eldin and Link, who has not seen his father's old friend Daruk since he was a small child, sends a letter to say he will be there to help (though he doesn't learn until months later a letter sent to the Goron City will catch on fire upon opening). Over the next couple weeks, he takes his time going across Hyrule, checking notice boards and answering calls for help. He ducks on his way across the Great Field, feeling a pang of certain guilt that he never took up his post. The Castle casts a long shadow and he can hear the capital from here. 

It's on his 17th birthday, alone by the Thims Bridge, so named after the sole yeoman that protected this side of Hyrule from slippery monsters of old, that the dream begins to come nightly. And now there is a third line, a new voice, softer and more familiar. _We need you again_. 

Again? 

The hook changes direction, pulling him north. He wants to go to Death Mountain, but _take what is yours_ resounds so strongly in his head now, much louder than before. He stumbles blindly after the voice. He wonders if this is even _his_ body anymore. 

He travels north. By the Military Training Camp where he spent two gruesome years, he travels during the night and with the Fox's Walk in his crane-empty mind, he is careful not to make a sound. And he doesn't. He goes past into the massive, looming, dark and angry forest. 

Four endless days pass chasing wind and fog, spirits keeping him awake at all hours of the night. Or is it day by now? The mist plays tricks on him, beckoning him forward and then laughing. It sends him back to the two flames again, the starting point he's learned. Link is delirious, lost to his dreams. Hooves are always behind him. Spiders creep and crawl through his blood. _I want to sleep but I don't want to know I'm awake_. Nightmare energy pumps through him, the acrid taste of a hangover in his mouth.

In his half-dream on the fourth day, he turns and sees her. Golden hair, pale skin, eyes bright and powerful. She puts her right hand out and the palm glows. Link's breath hitches and he knows the way. 

Into the clearing, now, ragged and dirty he wanders. He hears creatures, sees their heads poking out, but all they do is giggle again. So close, so close. His headache expands to cover his whole body. And then he sees it, in front of the great trunk of a great tree, a sword poking out of the ground. Too straight not to have been set there on purpose. Waiting for someone. 

For him?

He walks forward and touches it. His whole world tilts. Darkness, rivers, rain, oceans, a world of dark. He sees it all in a split-second before he tries to let go. But the sword or his hand or something won't let him. He's glued to it and all he can do is pull with all his might. He hears the Earth crack underneath him, and in the back of his mind, he realizes he's the one breaking the Earth. This blade, funneled deep into Hyrule's soil itself, does not want to leave. It does not come willingly, but still, Link pulls. The visions—memories—become everything he can see, faces, and worlds of the past everywhere he turns. He knows he is seeing through his own eyes as he has many eons before. All he feels is the hilt and the deep, gnawing brutal pain in his shoulders as he heaves this shining metal out of the land. Oh, it's so painful, so multiple, insisting on staying, on waiting on goading him until he breaks through a notch and it says, _Oh fucking finally_. And then the pain and magic rockets through him, through his bone. He's crying out. And then, and then, and then—

 _Swip_.

The blade comes clean out and Link falls backward, breathing heavily. Stars everywhere. His mind quiets. The sword shimmers once before going dull. 

Above him, something grumbles awake. He looks ups to the tree— _oh it has a face, oh it's moving_ Link tiredly recognizes—opening its eyes, its wooden lips smacking together as it shakes the sleep out. It looks down at him and raises an eyebrow before it smiles.

"Oh it's you again," the Tree says. His voice is gravel and rabbit feet at the same time. Earthen, worn, and bright. "I was wondering when you'd pop up."

Link is too empty to respond. He meekly nods. _Just agree to whatever the giant tree says_.

Clouds he didn't know where there disappear. Sun shines resolutely through the trees around this magnificent one, dappling the clearing. 

The Tree laughs. "It's good to have you back. Looks like you have some work to do."

Link nods again, but the hook is gone. "Where do I go?" 

"Hmmmm," the Tree murmurs, but he doesn't answer him. Instead, the sword blinks again.

_She needs you now._

Light flips through his mind and he is made aware of all that is beneath him. This great province where millions have lived and died, he must protect. He sees bright green eyes again. He frowns.

Somewhere far below even Hylia, within her vision but out of her touch, acreatureathing _abeast_ stirs, awakened by the unsheathing of one sword. Hylia breathes too, finally, and the goddesses don their traveling cloaks. Destiny is set in motion. The clock ticks a second closer to midnight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This turned out to be more of a prologue and setting of the scene than I initially expected.
> 
> As for schedule ehhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh.
> 
> I'm a slow writer. But I'm not forgetful.


	2. and She, the Great Star,

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bold of me to assume I could keep any chapter under 6000 words.

Farore's Season I

Zelda first hears about the hero with her lips pressed against another's.

Yes, salacious. Yes, warm, soft, pleasurable necking. Skies and seas, she's not a preteen anymore. Let her have her fun for a moment. A hand slaps Nayru's from reaching into the scene. Destiny will press upon her soon, but she's still a young woman.

She is pleased by the physical sensation, though today it is much wetter than usual, sloppier, more rabid, and she finds herself lost in thought— _if it's true that the sheikah mechanical workings of the beasts are powered by an energy source beyond the understanding of even the most revered and brilliant physicists and engineers at the university, can we trust them to sustain anything beyond turning on? I keep thinking about the treatise Master Lundy passed to me about the Goddess case.'We can represent heresy of the Goddess herself spatially, but we cannot do so geometrically.' Such a fascinating presupposition, but would it be heresy to test it? It would require a logic statement that distances Her from a major Aspect of Her, such as the ground, but to do so would be to lie, as She is the ground—_ so lost in thought, actually, that when the man whose attached to these lips begins pushing her in the direction of an endlessly rich redwood console table, it takes her a moment to notice her feet moving.

Zelda jolts conscious and pushes him off.

"Andriet!" She hisses. "Someone could walk in!"

Andriet stumbles back and bumps up against an armchair. "Who? Who's going to come in here?"

They're in a small, vacant sitting room of visiting quarters for esteemed guests—but not too esteemed, mind you as those hallways still have sentries—where no one would think to come by during a weekday, much less off-holiday. It's unlikely anyone will be cleaning these rooms more than weekly. Zelda's checked and knows the schedules by heart. After all, if you spend your life in a world this small, the inner workings become second nature. But still.

"I don't know," she says, folding her arms. "A maid perhaps? Or a guard who's heard some boorish noises?"

"You think my lips that loud?" Andriet asks, rather seriously. He raises his hand in offense.

Zelda's lips twitch. "No, of course not—"

"Come now," He says, "Zelda that was quite unkind. You know I'm sensitive about my lips."

"I... I actually did not know that," Zelda replies, attempting to keep her expression neutral. "I beg your pardon."

"Oh, please," He waves his raised hand. "I was merely joking."

"Oh, of course," Zelda smiles with closed lips.

Andriet is cute, always has been. Short black, curly hair and gray eyes that are alight with intention—like a snake about to snap. They were the first she noticed of him. He speaks well. Charmingly so. As all blue bloods, of course, but he is a beautiful inclusion.

"Quite. Now, where were we?"

He steps forward to her again and she sidesteps him.

"I believe we were kissing—and staying over here!" She adds pointedly.

"Oh Zelda," he says, walking to her and wrapping his arms around her. She softens slightly. "No one will enter, we both know that."

"We do not, actually," she starts but is interrupted by his lips.

His kiss, while lacking the passion of earlier, calms her and she relaxes into his arms. She kisses him back, running her hand across the back of his neck. Though she can't help but wonder _should I be worried there's something wrong with his lips?_

The door snaps open.

A voice says, "Princess! The sword—oh!"

Startled by the noise, Zelda jumps back and bumps against the wall. The dull thud causes an ornate frame to tremble dangerously. A sharp, uninspired landscape painting of Lurelin during the Korne-Rimba skirmishes. It is not a bloody picture by any means, but the land looks razed and sparse. Although she is not affected by the artistic expression, for the first time in her life Zelda looks upon this painting she has seen countless times in her life and it moves her. She hurts for the men whose swords and spears fell to the ground as they too laid to rest. It happened centuries ago, and yet still it can affect pain. She thinks she can almost hear them...

Zelda is startled out of her dream-drunk reverie by one of her lady-in-waiting's voice.

"Oh!" Mariel says again, casting her eyes between the two of them before bowing her head. "Begging your pardon, highness. I did not know I was intruding. I—"

"It's all right, Mariel," Zelda says smoothly, her voice underwater in her ears. It sounds practiced. "Duke Ubota and I were simply admiring some of the paintings around the castle."

"That's right," Andriet says without hesitation. "I have yet to see many of the landscape paintings Princess Zelda calls her favorites. Today I thought to ask for a royal tour."

See? Effortless.

"Duke Ubota," Mariel says and curtsies minutely. Her brown hair shakes out of her blue headscarf, a few strands falling loose against her cheekbones. "Forgive me. I was not aware you were here with the Princess. I would not have entered unannounced."

Andriet waves his hand dismissively. "Quite beautiful paintings, really."

Zelda smoothes her dress. "Yes, we were only looking around here before moving into the open-air corridors to admire ones by the Lanayrun Masters. Nothing to interrupt. In any case, what was it you came in for Mariel?"

Mariel, much like the two royals, is much practiced in ignoring the obvious. Oh, Zelda has no doubt Mariel saw everything. But it would be terribly uncouth to say anything in front of the castle's guest. 

"Well," she begins, "something has happened."

Zelda assumes the worst. A violent uprising. Her father has been kidnapped. The library, oh it has to be the library—!

"What has happened?" Zelda asks, her mind running over every scenario.

"The sword that seals the darkness," Mariel says, bowing her head. She sounds breathless and draws a triangle on her chest, the Hylian sign to ward off evil. "Someone found it. It's been pulled from the ground by a young man."

Andriet gasps, "Goddesses," and makes the same motion. Zelda, too, is shocked. She touches the back of her right palm instinctively, hoping somewhere in her heart that the news of the sword has unlocked a voice and she looks like her mother to them. Would that the veins on her right wrist be tense and backlit by golden light, as when her mother would send her ears to the spirit world in prayer. But no. Smooth, pale skin. Unmarked, untouched. Not chosen.

"How—how do you know, Mariel?" Zelda asks.

"I was just in the servants' dining and the place was afire with gossip," Mariel says before Andriet, who opens his mouth, gets a word in. "A letter arrived an hour ago from someone claiming to be in possession of the sword that seals the darkness. It was addressed to the King, but must have passed through his secretary's hands first and then High Priest Ciza's then the stewards and, of course, Sir Remont was looped in as this might be worth it to the military and by then every maid worth her salt was whispering about it in the halls—"

"Mariel," Zelda cuts in. "Does my father know yet?"

"If he didn't before, he does now."

Zelda exhales slowly.

Andriet finally finds his voice. "Before we rush to any conclusions, you said 'gossip.' How do we know this is true?"

Mariel's nostrils flare dangerously but her eyes stay still. "We do not, my lord. But I am simply relaying the same information to the Princess that the King has most likely received by now."

"And I thank you for that," Zelda says and strains to smile. Something is happening within her. It reminds her of breaking a bone—not the action, however. She was ten. Sure, the sharp crack was jarring, but it was the aftermath that inundated her. Did everything not work out as it should? After that, she wasn't certain, and so spent a month during her rehabilitation propped up in a chair, the sun laying its mark on her legs, soon to leave her left one half-pale. She poured her mind into medicine books and when that proved too much to handle, she limped her way through old, wayward court stories and poems of the great knights of old. She had dreamt of a story like that to befall her. How silly she had been then, now as this dull, anxious ache slips in. Would anything ever be the same again?

Is she going to be sick? No, she—no.

She turns to Andriet. "Duke Ubota, I think this is where we separate. I must speak to my father at once."

Andriet looks as if he's about to protest, but she holds steadfast and he falters. He nods. "Of course, milady."

Zelda curtsies to him. Her long dress fills up her hands. He nods again. His eyes, grey as always, darken as he looks away. _Oh good, something else to solve later_ , she thinks, cognizant of his moods.

He bows.

Zelda turns and nods to Mariel who reopens the door, after which Zelda follows. This whole event, saying adieu to a boy who kisses her well and speaks tenderly in her ear, has turned into a procession. The silence hangs long after they've left. Zelda wonders wryly if she should say a walking prayer of forgiveness. But then for what? It's when she leaves Andriet that she often feels she's done something wrong—simply for leaving. Perhaps she'll ask father if he'll have him for dinner tonight? That might pacify him.

Mariel is uncharacteristically silent. What is she thinking, Zelda wonders, and again the worst options pop up. Each step along the corridor, past guards stationed silently and the doors to the library, past the windows looking out over the moat and beyond into the kingdom that is hers by divine right, she wonders.

"You will remember not to say anything about this, yes?"

"Don't worry your highness. There is much more wanton castle gossip to pass around than your chaste, clandestine affair with a limp handkerchief."

"Mariel, don't be rude. I trust you to remember who is father is. The Lord of Faron."

"Ah, a man known only for his father. How it lights my loins."

"Mariel!" Zelda warns, but there's little heart in it. It is true. Andriet Ubota, fourth of his name and third in his line has done little to put himself in history books. He charms eloquently, if heartlessly. Raised in Faron, Andriet spent the first few years of his life stuck inside, struck by a bout of the Maraudo cough that had him up for hours each night, steam rolling off him in waves from the sauna stones left in his room's fireplace. Andriet grew into a poor fighter by both his younger and older siblings' standards. He turned to books and politics instead, building a surprising camaraderie with the serfs of the lands. Even at eleven, neighboring merchants conceded to him the better prices of goods. His father, properly impressed, began bringing him to court as informal education. There Andriet found a kinship in the highbrow, superfluous discourse of courtiers that led nowhere. Each year when he returned to Faron his actions, his words, his looks became more distant and that of a ruler. He lost a taste for small talk with those below him. While he rose as an esteemed player in the marble halls, his countrymen found him empty, distracted, and boring. It was this lack of respect that would be his undoing with Zelda, even though neither knew it yet. As for now, the most Andriet has done for himself was count coin, kiss the hand of a future queen, and have his name on the King's lips. He's well-known, but for being well-known.

Titles, titles, titles. She thinks of them all surrounding her in their robes and dresses and suits glammed up with honorary medals for honorary valor. A thin stream of them on each of her sides as she walks to the royal dais and receives her father's blessing on her seventeenth birthday. Nearly a year from now, she considers. _Will I have unlocked my powers by then?_

Ah, and this is when the thoughts strike. The sudden, jarring realization that to judge would mean to be above; she has done little to earn that. _But I'm the princess_. She is above him in title. Yes, of course. (Her instinctive defensiveness kicks in.) She is the heiress to the throne and daughter of the goddess whose blood runs through her. She will be remembered for all time, unlike Andriet Ubota who may as well not exist in one hundred years. So what if the blood of the goddess runs through her but has not presented itself yet. It will in time, that is certain.

Zelda feels a strangled, pinching guilt in her chest as she evaluates what she just thought about Andriet seconds ago. It was rude. But untrue? Logic suggests to disregard the truth would be to disregard the self. But who acknowledges and decides truth?

"Does he have a name?" Zelda asks, twisting the ring on her left middle finger. A gasping blue turquoise inlaid in a leafy gold pirouette. It was her mother's. Though she is nearly grown, still the ring is a bit loose. She spins it around slowly.

"I do not know, your highness," Mariel admits, leading the Princess down the halls as she curtsies to those who would demand a curtsy. "I rushed to find you as soon as I heard the news."

"You did good, Mariel," Zelda says. "Thank you again."

When they've reached the doors to her father's office, Zelda pauses.

"You may go, Mariel." 

"Princess." Mariel curtsies and leaves, walking back up the way they came. The tile is newly laid compared to the rest of the castle, ten or so years old. Coordinated oranges and teal blue, separated by whites ones that sit in pairs. It's been ten since her mother passed and Zelda cannot remember a time when the floor here did not look like this. Funny, that.

She turns to the door. It's an elegant, dark one. Across the body are carved words and drawings, symbols of the past. Supposedly this door has been the Crown’s for hundreds of years. It doesn't look it. Some think magic has preserved it. Zelda's eyes follow it from left to right. A devilish shape swirls around it, dark and menacing on the heavy walnut. It has no eyes but the form is angry. Chasing it around, two figures hands held. A halo surrounds them. She knows them well. Behind them follow animals, pairs of two, in long lines that follow the edge of the door. Doves, eagles, boars, horses. Within the swirl, catacombs of angles, fibonacci shapes that alight her heart to mathematics.

One in the center, the triforce, but of a different kind. The story goes that when the artist was nearly done carving, he gave up or died from a heart attack or a ghastly presence passed through his body and he disappeared. All right, so there's little agreement in tellings. Regardless, by some unintentional error, the triforce is not flat against the door. Each triangle looks as if it stands ahead of the previous but behind the next. There is no behind though. An optical illusion.

Zelda is certain she has this door memorized. Has spent years staring at this door, waiting for her father's meetings to end later than expected, and walk with him to dinner while he continues the discussion on foot. She has stood here while her maids go in to inform him which books she took out of the library that are _a bit out of her age range, don't you think?_ She knows the full history of her name. Every line of the poems and songs. This door is hers at this point, the etching a backdrop upon which her thoughts stand when she prays. And yet.

She sees a scribble in the door. Perhaps it's a trick of the light, so she leans forward, her nose nearly touching the wood. At the top of the bottom third, right above a doe and buck whose noses are touching. A signature. _ko._ Two letters. The wood smells dusty and aromatic, like a lyre removed from its case after months locked up. She breathes it in.

 _ko?_ _Who is ko? What is ko?_ She thinks. _How have I never noticed this before?_

She touches the indentation. The wood stays still, lacquered over. Not a bit of dust falls from it. Like it's been there for centuries. Odd.

Zelda knocks on the door.

"Yes?" A deep voice answers, muffled. Her father's.

She turns the golden handle. The mechanism clicks sharply and though it does not squeak, it grinds. Zelda will ask someone to oil it soon before it falls into further disarray.

When she steps through, her father, King Rhoam Bosphoramus Hyrule is sitting at his resolute desk. His bird, a dark parakeet with red jowls, balances on his perch and straightens, alert. Her father is flipping through papers. Without his crown on, he looks like an old man. And even though he's pulled his long, white hair back into a bun, some of it is falling in front of his face.

It's been a few days since she last saw him. Zelda's been so busy with tutoring, reading, horse riding, and bugging Purah to let her use the microscopes that she's sort of forgotten about him. Usually, he would dine with her, if not sit down for breakfast. But he's been mysteriously absent and she too engrossed in her own goings-on. Should she feel guilty or unsurprised? Or nothing. After all, a king without a queen has little place in his life for a princess. This much Zelda has learned growing up in her stone prison.

Harsh, she knows. But remember her age. Hormones and melodrama are hard to rise above. (During these past few years she will have forgotten the many years he baked her own birthday cake for her; the Sundays they themselves rode out across Hyrule Field before mass; how every year at each Farore's Ball he takes her first and last dance—always lifting her up to twirl as she laughs gleefully; that until two years ago, before the fortune-teller came to the castle, he came to her room every night to kiss her forehead goodnight and discuss his boring council meetings.)

"Good day, father," Zelda says and curtsies low. She bows her head respectfully as well.

He looks up from his papers. His reading glasses have slid down and are balancing dangerously on his nose.

"Zelda." He says. "I didn't call for you, did I?"

"No." Zelda smiles, she cannot help it. "Don't worry, your memory isn't that bad yet."

"Hmph," he says, frowning in good-nature. "'That bad.' Have I forgotten something, then?"

"I've not seen you at dinner for quite some time," she says and begins walking forward across the room. She keeps her feet on the long, red rug, careful not to touch the tile. The quiet here is immaculate and she does not wish to disturb it.

"Ah, forgive me Zelda." He sits up straighter and smiles with his lips closed. "I have been quite busy as of late and have taken most meals here."

She doesn't doubt him. Scrolls, books, legal documents are scattered along his shelves and his desk has only a small square of empty space.

"But don't worry," He continues. "I will be at dinner tonight. Perhaps I should ask for something we haven't eaten in a while. Pork suckling? Elivio told me the other day about a fig and voltfruit agrodolce he found in an ancient Gerudo cookbook. Supposedly, and I don't trust Elivio's translation much, the ancient Gerudo people believed the mixture of these fruits could bring such electric potency and nirvana that you would see one of their pantheon, the dragon Farosh. Of course, everyone knows the dragons are extinct if not myths," her father adds.

His eyes are alight with intrigue and excitement, and it surprises her. But then again, this is her father. Where did she get her research gene? The man carries information around and spouts it at will like a leaky faucet. But recently, he's been so hell-bent on _everything going wrong_ that she had forgotten he could be inspired.

She laughs. A real one.

"Sounds lovely. I look forward to staring down the snout of a dragon."

He laughs too. It's not a normal guffaw, but there is true feeling in it. She blooms inside. This won't be too hard. 

For a moment she stands there uncertainly as her father looks back down at his papers. He busies himself with his quill, dipping the nib in his inkpot before he sees her standing there still.

"Oh, you are dismissed Zelda. You need not wait around for my dismissal," He says, gesturing gently to the door.

"Actually, father..." She says and bounces from left to right, as she did when she was a child and knew she was about to get in a nasty spot of trouble for whatever came next out of her mouth. Her hesitation looks like M’s.

"Something else?"

"Yes."

King Rhoam puts down his quill back into the inkpot and moves the papers in front of him to the side, to show the empty spot of his desk again. He removes his reading glasses and looks at her expectantly.

"Yes?"

"I've heard about the sword. Is it true?"

"Who told you?"

Zelda says nothing.

"I can guess who." He leans back, all his former energy gone. He seems tired. "Yes, I received a note from a young man who said he had found and removed the Sword That Seals the Darkness from the ground."

"Can we trust him?" Zelda says. She doesn't notice her voice has dropped to a whisper as if conspiring. "How do you know it's true?"

"I do not know yet. But when he arrives we will know if it was some joke or not. But I doubt it."

"When is that?"

"Tomorrow, in the morning, he said."

Her father stands up suddenly. Zelda stills.

"We will talk about this more later, but I need to get back to work." He pauses and narrows his eyes slightly. "Have you prayed today?"

Zelda looks down, her face flush. Her lip is a thin line. "High Priest Atten said I need to pray only in the evenings before I sleep—as the Goddess's energy will flow more easily through me when I am still and at peace."

"Yes, well. I called High Priest Atten in here when this note arrived. He recommended, based on the evidence, that you begin praying in the morning as well, and even—" Zelda opens her mouth and he speaks a touch louder "—and even midday if you can manage, which I believe you can."

"But father, I have my studies and research. I must be doing those during the day. I disagree. I cannot devote myself to my studies and prayer."

Her father frowns and says, "yet you need to pray. Whether you like it or not, It is coming."

"If the boy is true," Zelda interjects.

"Yes," her father begins, waving his hand, "if the boy is true. Which I believe he is. He is the sign, as it is said. The great omen. And that means time is shorter than we expected. You must awaken your powers before It arrives."

"So that's that then? I'm to be locked in this castle, kneeling in the waters below before the goddess statue, praying my life away?"

"Oh come now, don't be so melodramatic."

Zelda's head snaps up and she snarls, "Is this what mother did? Sat in the cold, rank belly of this place, locked up as I am to be?"

For a moment, Zelda is certain she's gone too far. Her father narrows his eyes, a hot rage building in his gritted teeth. But then he falls apart as quickly.

"I—I don't know," He says, and runs his hand over his face, pulling it down. "She received the gift long before we met. I wish she had been more of a writer like you and me so we could search through a journal, anything." He pauses, looking far past her. "But I will look through her letters from our courtship and see if... she said anything of import."

They are silent for a beat. Zelda thinks of her mother's hands and bosom, the soft kiss of her eyelashes when she woke her in the morning. Twinkling laughter. She barely remembers her anymore. She bows her head. "Forgive me, father. I did not mean to... I want to at least see the divine beasts, as you promised. And continue my research with Purah. And if I am to spend even more time cooped up here—"

She stops herself when she hears her father laugh.

"Oh sweet thing," He says. She looks up, surprised to hear that name after so long. "Of course you may go. I made a promise, did I not? And are there not worship houses all along the way? There will be ample time to pray."

Zelda tears up. "Thank you, father."

"Now, regarding your research." He frowns. "I have said this before. I do not think it is becoming of a lady and much less a princess to read as much as you do, especially of mathematics and sciences. The women of the court have let drop many a hint that you rarely attend their luncheons—which surprises me. And while Master Lundy has expressed his surprise and admiration that you have a keen mind, I am less impressed."

He pauses. And so Zelda interjects, surprising both of them. "About the ladies: I hold no interest. They are boring and older by years and so focused on such prim topics... that is all I shall say. As for reading: I cannot think about nothing at all. I must read and write and... care."

"No, you must have a singular focus," Her father says harshly. The words whip out quickly and rap like knuckles on a door. "There is a force outside these very walls waiting for the moment to strike. And if you are not one with the Goddess before then..."

Ah, there it is. Like the hot breath of servants outside her door those many nights a young Zelda read by dim half-candles scared she would be caught, guilt rummages through her chest, like creatures in her nerves. The unsaid. If she is not to reach her potential, they are all doomed.

It does not ebb.

"I understand, father, completely. I have my duties, my one important duty. But... I love reading." She tries to emphasize the _I_. Zelda is shocked that what she thought was restriction was the fullest extent of her freedom. And now she must let that go and become Hylia's purified nun? "I cannot give that up."

"I know that. I know."

"Perhaps if it's educational for the task at hand... I may continue to read and research?" She asks. "I mean if it is related to the goddess and my powers and prayer and the history of Hyrule."

"Hm," her father tilts his head, searching her face for anything malevolent. And then, softened by some deep politeness inherent to him: "Yes, I suppose that would be all right. I would need to vet your book choices, of course."

"Of course," Zelda says, a bit too quickly. "Or perhaps even High Priest Atten could pick some for me, as he is the most knowledgeable in the kingdom about such things."

"Yes, that is true. I'm sure he already has some suggestions for you. I will ask him about those tomorrow."

Zelda smiles. Sure, she isn't getting everything she didn't know she'd lose today, but at least she will have something to go to bed with every night after she prays. And she's rather certain she'll find a way to get her books.

"Thank you, father, you have been most kind." Zelda bows and turns to leave.

"One more thing, Zelda." Her father's voice is loud and succinct like he has lit the candle to light the King's room again. She turns back. "You asked how I can trust this boy."

Zelda waits.

"I knew his name instantly," the King says, putting his left index finger on his bird's cheek, who squawks in pleasure. "His father, gone not long ago, was a knight in the royal guard. He spent many years by my side and protected your mother, the Queen. Often he accompanied her on dignitary missions and led her security detail.

"And do you know what his father before him did? He was a knight in the royal guard. A rather sufficient one. Medaled for the Battle of Ruvara where he led a charge the court musicians still play songs for. And his father before him?"

He pauses to let Zelda reply. "A knight."

"Yes, a knight. And before him, a knight. I am certain if you looked through the hall of records you would see his family line has always served Hyrule with honor and grace. So do I trust him? For his lineage alone, yes."

"Why are you telling me this?" 

"Well for one, you asked. And two, he is your counterpart. The sword that guides you, as the scripture says. I expect you to treat him with the utmost respect and get along willingly."

"Of course I will, father," she says, but recognizes already a chasm forming between her words and feelings. For one, she does not ask his name because she does not want to know. So a boy from a lineage as pure as hers has reached his destiny before she. She wonders if this is what knights feel when they are knocked off their horses. 

Dinner will pass in amiable silence with intermittent, polite discussion before her father is called away mid-second course for some duties he must've forgotten about. Zelda will take the rest of her meal in her room. She will write a letter to Andriet, asking for his forgiveness (though she isn't sure what for) before falling asleep with the candle still lit on her side table reading a graphic history of tectonic distribution across Hyrule. Her last thought will be of an unknown boy, faceless, his hand on a sword as he kneels before the throne. His knuckles are familiar. 

At dusk tonight she will dream of a burnt crisp of the castle, the land razed, goddesses gone, the night eternal and bloody red. She will walk through Castletown looking for someone. But all she will find is a graveyard, filled with her forebears who had once lived in splendor, dancing on the fields and drinking so much fermented wine they laid down on each other, high as the stars and saw vibrant greens and kissed each other in heady exuberance. She will walk across all of Hyrule, her feet bloody and broken, muddy brown by the time she arrives in what looks like Faron. There, she will find a small abode, nothing more than four parchment-thin walls and a roof of tin shaken loose by the wind. Cool, echoey, empty except for a magnitude of marble busts. The past Zeldas and princesses and queens, their eyes glowing gold. Their faces are passive as if they delicately know what is not said. But what is not said? Beyond these stacked faces, in one of the walls are nails. Roses grow out of them, near full bloom. _Next year there will be more_ , she thinks. _All is not lost._

She will awaken and believe she sees a ghost but will fall back asleep presently, not to remember anything the next morning. The ghost will kiss the edge of her bed and bow before turning, ambling through the walls into the moat where it will disappear when the sun edges into sight.

Come morning, after she has taken breakfast—toast and jam, cup of tea, sweet wildberry pastry—she will speak with High Priest Atten and follow him in prayer, for the first time in years. He will act surprised but her reasoning is obvious to him: that she has doubted her own ability to pray. It will be neither soothing nor painless. Her shoulders will ache and a violent feeling will shift through her, like a dog attempting to bite her insides and rip her apart. Atten will remark upon nothing. Instead, he hands her a list of books he thinks worthy of her time.

After, she will go to her room to change into her finery, informed by Mariel that _the boy_ is arriving soon, within the hour. The princess, once dressed, will stand before her mirror and see a princess and nothing more. Her body feels empty like a balloon—but that's not true, it's full of air. Maybe that's her problem: that she has no blood, no heart, no mind, no bones. She is only air.

Mariel will knock on her door. "Are you ready, Princess?"

"Yes."

The two of them will walk to the throne room where her father already stands, off the dais on the plain tiles where the common folk stand. She will stand next to him. Neither will say anything. In a moment (not yet will you get the full story, but I promise it will come soon) he will walk in, the doors opened by sentinels who move in rigid silence except for their grating armor.

When Zelda finally sees him her heart will burst into tattering ribbons before reeling back in and hardening, caged and quiet, like a stone obelisk.

(The three goddesses come in to whisper, _this is a very old story. there is no other version of this story_ )

She will realize why she twists her mother's ring so often on her finger: Her mother's ring, her mother's power, and now, the hero's sword. Surrounded by all these lines connecting her to Calamity Ganon, to destiny, and none of them are hers.

Her stone-faced contempt will spool through her body and she thinks, in the back of this crushing headache, it will be long before this hard hate will dissipate. What is not said: it will have sat behind the entire time. It being that which causes her legs to drag her this and that way, her heart to wrench and bloom, her angles to sharpen, and her mother to appear in every dove and flower. From the maze into a kaleidoscope of light, it will unfurl and like a sail catch the cold-singing wind and careen into the sky, boisterous and unrestrained.

For now, she leaves her father's study and walks down the staircases to the dark, watery abode of Hylia. Before the goddess statue, she kneels, kissing its feet before making the sign of the triforce.

"Dear Goddess, bless me this day and every day, and through me bless my father and this kingdom and all its people. May you guide them to be just and kind and loving."

She pauses, unsure.

"I... I plead with you now, as I have many times before but this time with a special request."

Zelda lowers her head. "Please, Hylia, please. Please give me my powers tonight. Or over the course of the night, or in the morning please."

She cries and it sounds like nothing to her. There is no noise to the dullness of this horrid shame.

"Please—I cannot see... _him_ without something to show for myself."

In her heart, and this is the conundrum, she knows it is futile. The Goddess does not grant wishes. She does not heal the sick because they ask. She does so because she wants to. All Hylians know she is a fickle deity whose miracles come in the form of heroes, not messiahs. Some, those most fallow in spirit, believe her to be gone, like the rest of the pantheon. But Zelda believes even if she has a hard time loving her.

Zelda looks up at her stone face. "Goddess Hylia, you have blessed all of my line. I wish—I need to be the woman into which you can make me. Isn't that what you want?"

The goddess statue does not move nor glow with magical energy. The only tremors Zelda feels are from her shoulders.

"Isn't that what you want?" She asks again before screaming, " _What do you want?_ ”

Her tears turn into full, heavy sobs, weighed down by granular pains in her chest, making it hard for her to breathe. She lowers her head again and crumples like a stray napkin.

As she openly weeps full of dread, she knows nothing will happen tonight. And perhaps not tomorrow or the next day. She does not know what will help, as no one does. She does not know what to think.

Instead, she is disturbed that on her tongue her tears taste sweet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think Rhoam gets a bad rap in most of the fics I've read about this period. Honestly, I don't think he's the fatherly antagonist of mean-spirit that most make him out to be. Obviously the recovered memories don't paint him well, but if the Old Man on the Plateau is anything to go off of, he must've been an inquisitive, witty, and kind figure in life. Hopefully that comes through. He's complicated and he loves her, but she doesn't understand it. 
> 
> As for the rest of the chapter: up to you.
> 
> Hope to see y'all soon.


	3. Who Sees What Sight Cannot

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two things: Age of Calamity was announced between the previous chapter and this one. I am bereft but will finish this story all the same. Knowing Nintendo, the cutscenes and plot of AoC will not live up to any of our desires for ZeLink. 
> 
> and 2., my apologies for taking so long. I finished grad school at the end of October so I've been very finishing building my portfolio since August. Hoping to be more consistent in the upcoming months.

Farore's Season II

Stale bird dropping and the wafting of soil that shakes from heavy life hundreds of meters away are the first senses. Then: a rough path grows more manicured and hylian-hewn. He steps onto the coursed rubble of a stone-set path, the sun skidding over the trees to mark the ground before him. If he were a more religious man, certainly Link would feel the pinpricks of godliness as he looks down. But his mind is so clouded it feels empty. It clashes like two mangy cats fighting, ragged. 

Next an arc of sound rings out to meet him as he enters the less forested area even closer to the imposing, hulking gray castle. Heavy pots and pans bristle with heat, chuckling angrily; the harsh hiss and clang of a blacksmith's rhythmic work in time with the sharp, effusive bulbs of pain popping in Link's mind; golden-yellow notes from a flute leaping high over the outer walls to mingle with the darners. 

_Are we forgetting something? Oh yes, the most obvious. Sight. And he has it._

When one sees Castletown, ancient city built in a narrow arc, they cannot help but think of its older brother, Hyrule castle, from which it exhales like a breath. Its outer walls are nowhere near as tall as the Akkala Great Wall but look formidable, though there is little wear and tear from past centuries. Above them rises a thin bog of steam and smoke from its numerous chimneys and forges. Six figures in heavy yet unrestraining armor stand at the front gate with its two hefty towers and thick, wooden doors that could be locked at any moment by a quick mechanism. Link sees among the walls, creatures. Sprites. In the sunlight he's surprised they don't shimmer into the aether within seconds. It's been happening for a couple weeks now. It's getting old.

Upon entering the gates, after a standard checking of papers, letters, and business by a gruff yet not unkind guard who rotates with the other five each day, a traveler realizes the hydrangea blue roofs, oft cleaned, sink with soot, several men and women up above rotating through neighborhoods to clean. Endlessly they search for perfection and every day as the constant wheel of progress moves forward, so does soot and smoke fall. Walking through, a traveler will witness the industries that make Castletown itself. The cobbler shops smelling of fine leather; women on corners laughing vibrantly as they weave safflina rugs; the streams whose cascades push the mill's paddles up; men standing outside their inns calling out discounts and deals; shady pockets in alleys where dice roll; and at night the raucous tomfoolery of drunken tavern brawls.

When a traveler does finally make it through the center road and look from the castle, the traveler realizes there are two cities: the one erect above the moat and the reflection, upside-down and wavering. Thus does the traveler learn that its many inhabitants are doubled as not only do the same facades and signs and windows repeat, but so do their interiors. Living rooms, bathrooms, kitchens, the mirrors and wardrobes. Castletown's inhabitants know this: that their every action doubles. It has left an auspicious incongruity among the citizens as they wonder each one, _is that my reflection or another me?_ What goes on behind the doors in the reflected city they may never know, but outside the same back alley kisses, dark night murders and wild chases occur. Why do you think all the merchants deal indoors? For fear of doubling their image and thereby decreasing their value. Some lovers extend their copulation to the windows, to see themselves taken and devoured and increase their pleasure by two fold. All that is certain: the two cities' eyes are locked but both wish to look away.

This is not Link's first time in the city and he has never thought about whether one city is more real than the other. It is not like him to concern himself with the theoretical. A grounded realist, that one. 

Instead as he walks up to the gates to meet a guard, he watches a wizened man mumbling to himself piss on the wall not ten meters from the gates. His pee splashes up on his own roughed up boots, but he doesn't notice and leans his right arm against the wall. The sun, now broken fully over the tops of the trees, paints his shadow on the wall as well. The guards pay him no mind and when he's done and waddles over to them they let him pass into the city walls without troubling him. Link sees him disappear into the crowd. 

"State your business," the guard closest to Link says haltingly as he steps up. His face is unshaven, his eyes lively. 

Link passes him a paper, folded twice. Through the gates he sees a few youngsters picking flowers. The knight, the only one Link notices has his gloves off, unfolds it and reads through it. 

"You've a meeting with the King? Today?" 

Link nods. He's already read through it several times so as to memorize the short note. He knows the King's official seal is stamped at the bottom next to his signature. He knows the guard believes him immediately. If he were faking a reason into Castletown, he wouldn't reach so high. And there's not a need to fake his way neither. Any man worth his salt could spit and grumble, 'out here to meet some mates,' and would pass right on through. It's the easiest city to get into and it's the capital. 

Don't get Link started, is our point. He has a lot of complaints already about what he knows will soon be his job: barely guarding. It's too easy to enter, a guard doesn't wield enough power, yadayada—let's give him a rest, all right? 

A brush of wind streaks across the plains and enters through the gate, swishing its thin paint across Link's eyes. He follows it along, seeing how it tucks under the Royal Buck's Tavern sign, which flicks upon its axis.

The guard pays no attention. "Everything checks out. I had nearly forgotten someone would be coming today with urgent business for his highness. A page should be down from the castle around 0900 to grab you."

The guard and Link both look at the sun. 

"Right, I know that's a ways away," The guard agrees. "Best you wait somewhere nearby."

Link turns his chest towards the aforementioned tavern, his body posing a question. 

"Uh sure, I can send them over there if you're going in."

Link is not a godly man, not by a long shot, but he recognizes the spirit of wind coaxing him in a direction. So he walks into the tavern. Oh, isn't this how all good stories start? But he's a little late, isn't he? 

The Royal Buck's Tavern is a dark, dimily lit space, filled to the brim with conversation and hankerings for cheap liquor. Nearly every table is filled and a man far into the tavern plays the piano while his accompaniment, a mandolin player with a burnt left hand, chats up a maiden. His drink spills occasionally. Above the bartender, a stout man with no visible aging but a gray mustache, reads a menu with four items: beer; whiskey; mead; beer and whiskey. 

Link frowns. Might as well. He walks up to the bar when the bartender isn't being hounded. 

"What'll it be?" The bartender asks, then squints at Link. "You old enough to be in here, kid?"

Before Link admits that no, technically he's a year off but give him a break, a hand thumps him on the back. He stumbles forward, his chest bumping into the bar. 

"Link? I thought that was you," exclaims a thickly loose voice behind him. Even with the slur Link recognizes it and turns. 

Sir Floren stands, still shining eyes, brilliant with mischief and anger. The sort of man whose face will turn no one's, but who will always be under watch. Link notices he lacks a sigil. Could he still be at the barracks? 

"We're having a drink over in the corner if you'll join us," He says, his hand still hanging in the air near Link. He's smiling widely. "Can't believe I spotted you that easy, you move like a ghost. Oi, get this knight a beer," he adds, nodding at the bartender. 

Floren waits with Link as his beer is poured, and orders another round for his mates. Link carries two of the five beers. 

"Here, I want you to meet these rough and tumble folk," Floren announces when they reach the table. It's louder here. With some tables open farther from the music but less secluded, Link guesses that is intentional. There are three other knights of varying ages and weights, each without sigil. The one closest to Link, the only woman, has dark hair and a vicious scar on her lip that probably took unique care not to go infected. The other two look the same, brown hair, eyes the same, tough hard noses. Link is certain they're brothers. All three of them, like Floren, aren't the cleanest knights he's seen. Their armor is brutally dull, some bits dented in, and not scrubbed or shined. Each one likely lacks a squire. 

"This is Sir Lyra, Sir Stendhal and his brother, Sir Dalton."

Sir Dalton's beer is nearly to his lips when he huffs loudly. "You didn't have to announce me like that as if it's not obvious I'm related to this useless bedswerver."

"Oi," Sir Stendhal laughs, poking his brother as he drinks. Dalton coughs, annoyed. "You're the one that looks like this useless man. What's that say about you?"

"All right, all right," Lyra interrupts. "Who's this then, Floren? One of your new recruits?" 

By now Link and Sir Floren have sat down, Link having turned and found an empty chair. It creaks so only he can hear it, unearthly in its vocal quality, like a nun's echo. Or something giggling. He makes sure to face the door. 

"This here is Link, an old buddy from Lake Kolomo," Sir Floren grins. "One of the best swordsman I've ever seen, and this was when you were what, 15? He was sent here a year and season ago to man Castletown as a Captain. But word is he never turned up, so what are you doing back here?" 

Four pairs of eyes are on Link now, Dalton's head even cocked curiously. It is a resolute look, and so are the others. It comes to pass that Link realizes he must speak, which he hasn't done in two months. Has gotten through staying at inns, taverns, interacting with townsfolk, buying supplies, all without saying a word. There's something to be said about the indisputable loneliness of commerce—where coin says more than words ever could. And when you place a few good rupees in front of some backwoods village store manager, he barely even looks at your face. 

And now, as he opens his mouth, the beasts in his mind crackling under the kismet fire of the burning sword on his back lunge out, filling his head with horrors, dark eyes, laughter, animalistic snorts and grunts. He wanders through his eyes, looking for the path forward into reality. The weight is crushing. He carries it anyhow. 

"I've got... business here," Link says. His voice cracks. "Hello."

Floren furrows his brow. 

"He always been this uh... slow?" Dalton asks abruptly. Stendhal pokes him again. "Or is this just how youngins talk now?"

"Link's not a dalcop if that's what you're asking," Floren scowls. He eyes Link. "But you all right there? You seem less lively than I remember."

"No," Link starts, and he feels some ancient feeling strangling him. He swallows. "I'm fine. Haven't spoken in a few weeks."

"Right, you've been out on your own," Lyra says. "We can sympathize. We do a lot of that as well." 

"But don't get us mixed up," Stendhal says seriously. He has both hands around his mug and is fidgeting with the condensation. "We're not seeking our fortune or out on the land for any Lord or Duke."

"Nor are we out on the lam," Lyra adds. 

"What they're trying to get at," Floren says, "is that we may be rough but there's a reason for that. Here, you probably noticed we've got no coats on our shoulders."

Link notices, yes.

"Well," he continues, "that's because we don't believe in them."

Link furrows his brow, looking confused enough for Floren to elaborate. "This whole system of knights, squires, lords—we think it's unjust."

"That's right!" Dalton says, slamming his mug down, already done drinking. He gets up, making his way around the table to the bar as he adds: "We've learned first hand how knights without Houses fall to the wayside."

"It's either you're not a knight, scrabbling for something to call your own," Floren says, "or you're under the thumb of a lord who gives you land and patronage, sure, but what do you give in return?"

A spot of liquid at a table nearby drips on the floor behind Floren. Link watches some sweet, syrupy thing slip through the air, landing in dark emptiness. It's somber, this slow, endless dripping that in seconds could be wiped clean, gone so easily. Link shrugs. He doesn't know much about knighthood outside his years in garrisons, citadels, and training for whatever he's supposed to be now. What is he now? 

The three knights lean in closer, conspiratorially. Link follows suit, his eyes scanning darkly over the inhabitants. If anyone's paying attention, they do a better job than most. 

"You give your life, your blood, all while they get stinkin' rich," Floren says with a grim smile. "It's a travesty that someone as young as you mate might end up dying and believe it's for glory. When really it's to line pockets." 

Link laughs bitterly, which shocks Stendhal into looking around surreptitiously. 

"You're being too vague again, Floren," Lyra says. She turns to Link. "What he means to say is that in a kingdom where it's law that every Lord, Duke, Earl, or Baron get eight tenths of every rupee you make from contests, scouring, notice board good deeds that knights are known for, and you see that every knight who doesn't wear a patron's sigil is shunned from work—well's not fair, that's all." 

So what?

"So what are we going to do, right?" Floren interjects, a little annoyed he's been overruled. "Well, we're not exactly sure yet, but something's gotta give right?" 

"Revolution!" Dalton slurs, sitting down with a thud. His new glass is half-gone. "Down with the _genterie_ _!_ " 

"Keep your voice down," his brother hisses and looks around. A couple groups at the tables nearest to them look over. Their conversations have stuttered to a stop. "Sorry, he's a bit drunk. Mocking the uh Brûler."

A few of the men at the nearest table laugh. "More like _se brûler_ ," chortles one of the fellows, laughing. "Hate those pompous fuckers."

Stendhal laughs heartily, gripping his brother's arm. "Us too."

The groups, sensing an easy passage, turn back to their conversation and drinks. The knights with no sigils do the same. 

"Bleedin' idiot," Floren says. He looks at Link, who watches Dalton carefully. "Don't worry, we aren't planning a you-know-what, not like in Montsous. First off, we're not sure it'd work—"

"But we do have pamphlets with our manifesto and goals written out," Lyra interrupts. Floren raises an eyebrow. Link realizes neither of these two are sure who's the head and who's the neck. "If you'd like to take one, I mean."

She pulls one out of her pack and hands it to him. Link takes it graciously and reads the title: _On the uneven distribution of knightly wealth: how much are you losing?_

"Thank you," Link says, "I don't have much money to my name though. I live rather simply and don't think I've lost out on much." It's the most he's said in over a year and it comes out garbled. He blushes. Dalton is drinking again, beginning to sway and hum to the music. 

"So," Dalton starts, stock still and his eyes perched on Link. "What brings you to Castletown if you're late by a year?" 

Under the lucidity Link scrambles, "I..."

The sword, wrapped past its hilt in heavy, brown cloth weighs heavier on his back. It's the dark remnant of being alive that might be the heaviest part, actually. That he survived while the sword has shown him all those who failed, fell into miserable darkness and disarray. That most men who have touched the blade have taken their own life. 

That he's afraid to touch it again. So he pats his legs and laughs. 

Just then the discomfort breaks. Entering the tavern a young boy, quite out of place in royal garb as he's accosted by a woman, most likely due to his age. Link takes a sip from his beer and stands. 

"That's my business, actually," Link says and points out the page who has yet to notice him. 

The others turn. Floren frowns. "With the castle? So you were picked as a guard?"

"It's more..." Link sighs, words failing him. "complicated than that. But I must go."

He starts to walk away when Floren grabs his arm. They look at each other. "I don't know what business you got with the crown, but I trust you'll be smart with it. And you'll read my pamphlet? I wrote most of it myself."

"Oi, I helped," Lyra interjects. 

Link eyes Floren and smiles slightly. "Of course, friend. Now I'm going. It was a pleasure meeting you all," he adds and bows his head briefly before walking off. 

When his face is gone from their eyes the cold, burning balloon of water that is the spirit words hanging around the crown of his head burst and descend upon him again. He feels exhausted solely by the hiding of his sword. 

He takes note of what he's learning: it does not like dishonesty. 

The page is quick to leave, relieved to see his charge coming towards him. They exit promptly. 

Once outside, the page asks, "aren't you a bit young to have important business with the king?" 

The boy looks Link up and down too and grimaces, obviously not satisfied with his attire nor the mud caking his boots. Link says nothing and they walk from the outskirts of Castletown into the interior of the city, which has roads that wind and do not. Under direct ordinance from King Bryton III (long may he reign), there is a color code—royal blue accents, white central color or a teak, natural brown—to every building in Castletown and so the likeness of streets is unavoidable. When one walks through Castletown, they are seeing each street as the street before. Even the street names have similar names (Queen Luanne I Ave. intersects with Queen Luanne II Ave.) that coincide with the past. 

Strangely enough, Link realizes for the first time in his life—and perhaps the first time a human has—that some of the street names in the pure, identically reflected city clash with those one can see plain as day. Have some royalty been erased from the false city? Or was it false to honor their names? Now what would Narcissus think of this one, we wonder... 

The thinking in Link's head is becoming polyphonic, he realizes. There are multiple voices, the sword, himself, the demons, the not demons (he cannot think of a better name for us yet), and the soil itself is speaking to him. Melting together, whirling in his brain from that first touch of the sword. As he walks with his page who has warmed up enough to describe the various buildings and entities he has deemed worthy enough to mark upon, Link thinks perhaps he needs time away from the sword. It is heavy. Or will he become used to it? Is there anyone who can help? 

"And this is the Bridge of Carthent, whose name you might know from the ancient stories," the page drawls like a bored guide as they cross the stone, fortified bridge that crosses the moat to the outer keep of the castle. In the page's tow, no one checks Link for any papers nor bothers the two of them. "Note that this bridge lacks any structural glue such as a mortar. This bridge, which has supposedly stood here since before Hyrule was one nation built for who knows what, is built of thousands of rough though perfectly cut stone blocks. One would think it precarious but it is the only structure that has not needed maintenance in Castletown during its entire history."

Link listens as only a knight has the capacity to do: with half his mind tucking this information away for later while the other half keeps his eyes on the horizon, scanning the periphery of his vision for anything out of the ordinary. And he sees unordinary. 

A small creature, no taller than Link's hip, stands in the middle of the bridge off to one side, looking over into the water. It dances, his ears(?) twinkling as chimes. A strong memory incapacitates Link for a second as he witnesses from child's eyes seeing his father pulling sunshrooms from the ground of a forest, Link doesn't know which, and the sun is glazing his father with lines of salt brown light and there is a limping, cold wind in the air that makes Link want to go home and as he is about to say that in his young, whining voice the leaves twist and burst into accompaniment to the tiny giggling he hears behind him and further from the clearing the two of them stand out so he ventures off a little ways away into the underbrush and sees two little creatures, like this one across the way on the bridge, dancing and winking in and out of focus, their hands jingle over each other as if playing patty cake though one pushes the other over and runs off, laughing further into the woods where Link will not follow and the other gets up running after and disappears into someone else's dream like a kiss from the goddess. Link walks back to his father who rubs the top of his head. "All right there, kid?" 

As the memory collapses on him, Link must be staring for the creature jumps in fright. Dancing around, it points its finger (again, we're not even sure) and looks around to catch who knows attention but there's no one there.

"Eyes! Eyes!" Its voice sounds like two oars bumping together in the water. 

The page and Link are walking by it now. The two of them, so-called Eyes and this creature, stare at each other in shocked silence. The page's stride does not change. "Something wrong?"

Oh, of course always the sensible Link thinks himself going crazy. 

"That human can see me!" The creature is shouting now. Link winces. 

"No, nothing." Link wonders if perhaps he needs to eat something after that beer—his first in months—but to say such would not be wise. Especially to someone he's sure disdains him already. "Let's keep moving. I want to see the King as soon as possible."

Now they are at the inner keep's gate, the creature long left to his harmonious screeching. "You've brought news of something I suppose?" The page's eyes glaze over in boredom. 

"Urgent."

He looks sidelong at Link. The guards nearest to them, having overheard, stiffen slightly. "Urgent you say? What's the word?"

Link raises an eyebrow. Why didn't he think earlier that of course gossip would be the best option for conversation? If he wanted to converse that is. "Private matter."

The page narrows his eyes and says nothing for awhile. When they reach the Castle proper, Link looks up. It's massive, this hulking beast that looms over the domain. Still grey stone, turrets, buttresses that widen its shape, massive windows and stain glass designs following interior staircases. To think one man and his daughter live there and allow others to work in it. It makes him uneasy. Maybe he was never cut out to be like his father. 

"Urgent for the King or urgent for you?" Link looks back down at the page, noticing for the first time a pin on his cap, the stencil geometric symbol of Tabantha. Rooted in Zonai culture, long-lost to the past. Did they live in castles he wonders. 

"Urgent for the King," Link admits. 

"Hm. Right, well I'm sure you'll want to wash up before meeting with his majesty. I'm sure he'd want the same. Please return to this gate promptly 10 o'clock and someone will be here to walk you into the throne room where his highness will be waiting to speak to you. Do not be late," he adds before half-bowing his head quickly and walking off. 

Now, we won't describe Link showering. You have your own dirty mind for that, friend. We will say this, however: the page did not direct him, nor tell him where to wash up, so he wandered a bit looking for those who looked like him, other knights. But he found either everyone looked like him, a Hylian, or nothing like him, much older, stronger, and perhaps even less jaded. There was a startling warmth to the recognition that had appeared on the horizon in Castletown and now passed through him in waves. That he was one Hylian among many and these people were his. Certainly it wore heavy on his chest, this recognition that he was by no choice of his own called to a role where the triforce hung around his collar and he stood with his backs to other Hylians. In front of them, yes, but still they stood to his back. And he: knees bent, blade out. 

Eventually he found the barracks, dropped his clothes, walked into a wash room and bathed with late morning half-boiled water. The sword leaned up against the tub, his hand waving over it the entire time. A warm bath, even though like a touch of nirvana, is never enough for a man to forget his duty. A deer may run across, but the horizon is still there. 

He stood up, dried off, tied his hair up, put on the same clothes he wore before, tried to scrub the mud out of his boots best he could, and left. No one in the barracks bothered him which Link found strange. He made a mental note to discuss that with whoever is charge and then smiled. _Old habits_. He thought of the Colonel for the first time since he had left. 

At 1000, Link stands in front of the gate to the innermost keep, where the courtyards are for two people and their invitees, the courtiers who take no notice of a lowly peasant knight dirty from destiny. A gray-haired guard waddles over to the gate, twists his index finger in the air and the gate pulls open slowly. The wheels turning creak but the gate does not shudder. 

"You're the young knight Link, yeah?" The eldest guard says gruffly. The lack of formality does not go by unnoticed by neither Link nor the guard standing nearest. "Follow me. The King is expecting you."

He does, Link, follow the guard through the courtyard, the sword still clothed in scratchy brown like a prophet coming from the desert, up the steps to the doors to the throne room. It's a straight line from the gate to where they stand now. The sun is out. 

When the guard knocks and opens the tall, man-made doors, Link realizes he has no choice anymore. He must enter, there is no leaving now. 

So he bows deeply to the guard who grunts and walks through. The sun shines in from behind him and from the stained glass windows he sees on the sides of the room, the short, high-ceilinged hallway of a space upon which runs a long rug, handmade in the 840s by the grasping, stuttering fingers of seven women, all who grew up in various regions and came to each other, one of them blind, as if in a dream to meet at the castle proper as maids, cooks, stewardesses, all with a learned ability to thread and weave, each with a past and history that led them to remember as if a memory of their own a different story of history which they then without meaning to began turning over into action on one single long weave upon which Kings and Queens now walk. But the story is lost to everyone but us. And now you, it seems, know why the royal blue is etched with gold figures and blades and war and the heart of the mind of things, as if one walks from one century into the next. 

Link walks forward, unaware that the sword witnesses this place as one with previous places and feels the quiet, delicate embrace of familiarity. In what feels like minutes to the sword that seals the darkness, he has gone from cold and alone to the bright hands of a hero and now within her presence again. It grows hot on Link's back, bright with fervor. What he does not know for certain but understands: that it is when Link's scan moves through the room to see the King in modest regalia, crown on and hair tied back in his well-known triple knot, it is cool. 

Only when his glance moves to the King's right does the blade begin to shine and grow too hot to hold. He stops where he is standing in the middle of the throne room, halfway to the only other figures, and remove the blade from its cloth dressing. He is right: the sword has grown bright. Stronger than the sun itself, it shines like a lover's eyes, pure and magnetic. The King gasps, "By Farore's hand."

Link does not look at her but looks at her while he walks forward, sword in hand. Her face has not changed expression except perhaps to stiffen. He feels her more than he thinks of her. The sword is pulling him dangerously, infecting his mind with hissing whispers of duty. 

Only when he reaches the steps before the royal dais and he begins to kneel down, the blade flat across his hands, head about to bow, does he finally allow himself a glance.

What he notices last: her cheekbones look restless, like they're about to break out of her body into blossom; her hair the color of Akkala twine and softer than northern silk; a couple freckles that make her young; a shadowy mischief runs through her eyes, emerald green, of someone with a mind of her own; high-desert pink blush; cool safflina calmness that will aid him when he needs it most; the inscrutable certainty of someone rarely challenged; a high forehead that says I will not be fucked with. 

What he sees first and will think of first for months to come: around her an aura, a faint yellow flickering as if a candle wavering, frail and near wick's end. It shatters him. 

This is the woman the sword sent him to find. Beside her, perhaps even in front of her with his the sword out he will stand and face death's remarkable god. And all she does is flicker. There's no source of goddess-blessed beyond what Link sees floating around every Hylian. Whatever the sword is searching for, Link is afraid it will not be found. That it is too early or too late. That there is not enough time. Suddenly, a feeling of impending doom that will permeate through the kingdom starts its journey with him at this moment when he wavers. To see some of the future is to believe yourself certain of it all. The soul hardens and he promises himself resolute, remembering his old knightly pledges. But it is that split second that matters most, that will affect every decision he makes.

He kneels. His choice taken, fate narrows.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you don't like how Link views Zelda now, good. Neither do I.


	4. Untied by Farore-Born Lungs

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trust me to go three months without an update and then 10 days with a new one. 
> 
> I'm trying to write shorter more succinct chapters to get momentum up. Hopefully this one is worthy of y'all.

Farore's Season III

It must be nearing mid-Farore's, when the tree's leaves are beginning to sprout in full and the dark smeared fuschia bulbs are peeking their heads out, that Zelda is late for the first time. She will remember it so clearly. The bottom of her hair is still wet when she sits down in her chair next to her father in the throne room. She tucks them back behind her neck where they fall and dampen her neck's collar. 

It is by every fault of her own that she is late. There is little excuse to say except, "I'm sorry I was late father," when she bows quickly. What could she say? That she laid up in bed forty minutes extra, staring at the wild bones of a deer skull she had been studying at her table for signs of malice? That she did nothing but look into those empty eyes like great maws boring into her and thought of her counterpart who would arrive that day? 

That she dreamt of what he looked like before he arrived both in scorn and hesitant curiosity?

It is no matter. She sits and her father says nothing but the tightened muscle in his jaw is immense. He waves his hand and sends Sir Renault, the Montsous expat and dearly devoted friend, out to the gate where he meets the young knight whose name Zelda does not yet know and walks him back to the doors, under strict orders not to enter the throne room until given notice. 

When the young knight walks through the door the sunlight covers his back, making him radiant. Zelda's stomach drops. Each footstep of his reverberates through her body and thuds her spine, like a dull doctor's mallet. _thunk thunk_. Yet he moves quietly and deliberately. From where his footsteps sound in her she has no idea. It is only when he takes out the sword and kneels does Zelda see his face for the first time in full. They make eye contact. _thunk thunk._

What she thinks first: my god he's fucking gorgeous.

What she thinks of last and will think of whenever he's near: the sensation of his eyes on her, hungry yet willfully ignorant; his multicolored eyes, blue, dark, cold, frozen safflina; the grim set jaw that betrays no emotion and will not for months; a flash that sifts through his eyes when they find hers; the deep bow of his head when he kneels before the King; his soft grey earrings like clay; the lack of anything clear in him, like it is written ( _"and he will come in silence and toil in clear courage"_ ), a vessel for the goddess-light as she should be.

"Rise, my child," her father the King says in his royal voice, his words long, cavernous, and filled with certainty. His greatest skill has always been as an orator. "And let me look at you." 

The boy rises, still holding the sword across him, two-handed. He bows his head again. His hand safely holds the hilt's grip with ferocious intensity, as if he will not give it up which contradicts: "My King if it pleases you, I offer up this sword for you to claim."

For a long beat during which months pass, the King narrows his eyes and says nothing. Then: he laughs so loudly it frightens Zelda and the boy whose neck shocks upward to look at the King. 

"Why Link, you look just like him. And act the same," King Rhoam says, his voice dropping away from the booming royalty but still filled with certainty. The familiarity with which he speaks drives coldness through Zelda's shoulders. "So formal. I was very sorry to learn your father passed."

_Your father?_

"Thank you sir. Your letter was quite kind and much appreciated." Link says, bowing his head again. He has not once made eye contact with the King, having looked past him as one does to royalty. _So why did he look at me_?

"I'm sure you know this but I..." King Rhoam pauses, looking over the young man. Still a boy. "I considered him a friend for many years. One of very few."

"Sir?" Link asks when the King stops. 

"Well, I mean that I wish to extend to you the same kindness. And hopefully," he adds, turning to Zelda, who has been watching Link with guarded disdain, "that you and my daughter might strike up a similar cordiality. I believe it has been quite long since you two spoke."

Zelda whips her head to him. "Father?"

King Rhoam furrows his brow. "Come now, don't tell me you've forgotten when his father brought him into the castle training yard so we could watch him best five guards. You were only four a the time but I remember you so enthralled. The Queen was positively infatuated with him and kept pushing you two together at playtime. She was always so mischievous like that," He adds. 

"We... met?" She asks, now turning to look at Link but his eyes are forward, showing no recognition or emotion as if the story has passed straight over him. _He was that boy?_ Now she wonders what he can do with that blade and nearly shivers. 

"And now look how far he's come. The Queen must've seen something in him, as was her gift, for now, he wields the sword that will seal the darkness." 

He traces a triangle on his chest: the Hylian motion to ward off evil. 

"Which while beautiful in its own right, only puts more pressure on us," King Rhoam says and turns to Zelda with hardened eyes. "Perhaps it would do you well to pray while I see to it that Link meets with Sir Renault to discuss living situations?"

Zelda, shocked and affronted, nods weakly and then turns to Link. His eyes have not moved but all the same, she feels shame running over her skin and seeping through her pores. It turns her skin and eyes red. She knows then for certain that she will always loathe this perfect boy. _The Hero._

At first, she will not see. At first, her lack of sight is a sight of its own. 

Zelda stands and bows to her father and pointedly ignores the knight, who her father has sent to bring Sir Renault in. It is through the act of bowing that her dress drags on the ground and the knight—no she cannot see it—watches her through veiled fringe as if he has heard the quiet of her dress, like determined leaves kicked up by wind reach back for their branches. Only to find ground again. Such is romance by exchange of seeing and not seeing enough. 

Already forming opinions of a boy she has not said a word to, already sure this story will pass like wildfire as in the style of a Montsous man Renault is a bit of a magician turning coin into liquor into story, Zelda leaves the throne room, a letter in her mind etching into a word, turning near-permanent: _You_ becomes _ungrateful_.

The castle hallways and courtyards at this point in the weekend day prove to be haunts for courtiers, above which portraits and battle scenes, as she had pointed out to Andriet only a day ago. Each pair of eyes more sinister than before. More judgmental. She stomachs it poorly. 

Today seems to be a day off for everyone except herself: there is a drunken laboring of freedom to each of these obscenely wealthy people. Everyone greets her with a bow, of course, the women's hairstyles of the time, wizened braids and tied up curls, falling past their heads. But there is a content _je ne sais quoi_ about the crowd. After all, a curling spring warmth swirls through the city. Everyone has their shutters thrown open. It is pure chance then that today they will learn how much has changed in the Kingdom: that suddenly they are at war with an unseen enemy who will present itself when the time comes. But yes, fret—the time is coming in this generation. 

So she walks on and lets them live their last hours of unbridled freedom before the trees come in to dapple the city and everyone searches for their spot of sunshine. It'll be a long and lonesome Din. 

Speaking of lonesome: Zelda remembers she forgot to formally invite Andriet to dinner as she had promised. Goddess knows he's one to follow protocol and Zelda is secretly glad for it. She had not wanted to see him last night. But he will be cross. 

_No matter_ , she thinks. That is a situation for later, past the hours of prayer she must now succumb to. When she makes it to her wing to change into less formal wear and exchange weighty diadem for the lighter diamond circlet, there is a cleanly wrapped package on her vanity. She unwraps it to find two books titled _Recent Theories on Elixir Potency_ and _Timing: Seasonal Effect on Theories in Modern Science._ There's no note, but she guesses Purah actually listens when Zelda rants about how little the Royal Library has for her on more obscure science, I mean it's truly mind-boggling, don't you think? 

She'll have to thank her next time she's at the lab. If there is a next time, of course. With the sword here, her process is sped up. _T_ _alk about seasonal effect._ Farore's awakening has brought her on an entirely new path. And like the blossoms about to burst, she too must bloom and awaken to the sun. 

Knowing she shouldn't do it but needing something to keep her annoyance down, Zelda flips open *Timing* and reads:

_In the even-tempered regions of Necluda, in the wild winters of Tabantha, in the dry heats of Gerudo, and in the sweet, damp rains of Faron we see a wild difference of climate. There is little consistency. But it is that lack of consistency across a kingdom as wide as this that allows for consistent results of ecological, chemical, physical, and biological experimentation. Consider this: a theory is unsubstantiated if it works in one region, but if it works in many, then it has become a universal truth insofar as it reaches the plains of Hyrule. Timing allows for the unessential of proving a theory to be essential. It is why the world will end if the Princess can't get it together while the sword that seals the darkness has an owner, a perfect own—_

Zelda pulls back, shaking her head. _What the fuck?_ She rereads the sentence: _It is why the world of Hyrule is one of the most respected countries scientifically: it lacks the dry homogeneity of Isla or the damp blanket that covers Montsous._

She laughs uncertainly, realizing she was reading into herself not the book. Then, like static, it shocks her what she imagined. A sickening pang in her stomach. Is this her test then? To look around the world and see her flaws in every text, every look, every man? 

(Oh, our child. Do not fret this is not the test. You will have many more, do not worry.

Sorry, that's not much help is it? She doesn't know that yet, though.)

Putting down the book, she walks to her armoire to remove the lithe, lightning white dress she must wear during prayer. Another sick pang, this one curling through her esophagus like acid. If she were a braver woman, she'd journal to dawdle before going to her little corner of this little castle where she has been chained—oh, she's already starting an entry in her mind, Zelda thinks.

But if she must look at herself fully (and no, not darkened gray, sharp mirror she looks into now) then she is not ready. But she cannot admit that to anyone but herself. 

"Mariel? Where is Mariel?" She says out loud, adding an addendum to her to-do list for the next few hours. Resolved to find her and discuss the distinguishing events of the day, she sets off in the direction of the lower chapel. 

(You will not want to pray every day, darling. But you simply must, if only for appearances. If only for yourself. Or is it too brutal an act for you?)

There is no resolution to the question aching in her head that has and will ache for the rest of her life, even when the dewy grass has gone dark brown and then green again in its overgrowth. Did my mother pray as much as I did?

She touches her ring. Perhaps she would like to read the ancient queen journals after all. Perhaps her mother's lies somewhere tucked away in a spot it will neither present itself nor disappear altogether. Where her father knows it lies but will never look. 

Mariel, her sporting companion and magnificent beauty of destitute finances—oh she's not terribly impoverished, just ends up playing cards too often—is not too unique in where she spends her off-hours. It's a Saturday after all, and at midday like clockwork, Zelda finds her outside in one of the smaller courtyards for the ancient Queen Lilith whose grace directed warring factions of Hyrule to band together in its quest to defeat some unholy blight in Gerudo for which the people of that land were eternally grateful. Mariel is doing what she does most days: reading. 

Yes, what drew Zelda to Mariel in the beginning as a lady-in-waiting—mind you this is near five years ago—was Mariel's penchant for leaving books in between folded dresses, sheets, on tables. 

So bad was her habit of misplacing books that her duties had been moved solely to the Princess nearly immediately. As she was the only current resident who enjoyed this—The King was much less smitten when he woke one morning after a restless night to find two hardcovers underneath the top sheet where his hip laid. 

Mariel sits there on a bench, her normally straight back folded back against the long line of the bench as she sprawls across it, relaxed and inattentive. In her hands is most likely a romance novel. Zelda admires her reading capabilities but has said more than once she thinks it wasted on poor plots of couples strolling about refusing to admit their feelings. "If I liked someone, I would simply say so," Zelda once said to which Mariel replied: "you say that now, but the woman started out hating the man and vice versa." 

"And?"

"Well, you wouldn't want to admit it under that context. Really Princess, consider the principle of things."

(Farore wants us to point out that this may be a bit too on the nose. We didn't write this though, did we? We're relaying fact.)

Regardless, Mariel has not given up on her quaint heroics and rather saucy ("Look at this Princess, he touches her back in this scene") stories. What troubles Zelda is more that Mariel is the only member of her family—save the youngsters Zelda knows write letters back—who is literate. The eldest and earliest to work, Mariel started as nanny young enough that she hadn't spent enough time in creche to build up a luxurious vocabulary. And yet she kept after it, reading in her spare time. Why had she not gone into a more lucrative business such as bookkeeping? "You know why miss," Mariel told her one day abruptly, wiping her hands on her dress. "There's no space for me in it, not when you're a girl. Maybe if I end up a merchant's wife and he'll teach me the numbers too. Otherwise..."

 _Touché_.

"Good day, Mariel," Zelda greets now in the present. "I have much to speak with you about. Don't worry about it," She adds as her companion begins to stand and curtsy. "No one's here."

"I'm on my break you know," Mariel says, their unspoken code to break the code of formality now upon them. "Sir Cavendish has recently admitted to his great and powerful brother that the family estate will need to cut back in the coming months and I think there's about to be quite the argument."

"My sweet," Zelda says. She reaches down, putting her warm hands on Mariel's cheeks. "I simply do not care." 

"Load of fun you are." Mariel makes room on the bench for Zelda to sit. "What's got you going like this?"

"The sword wielder arrived today."

"Ah, so he was on time," Mariel says approvingly. Rare was this attitude even though she was a few years older than Zelda. "And what of him?"

"He was—"

"Wait," Mariel interrupts. "Does this fail the Bechdel Test if we talk about this swordsman?"

"Not this again, Mariel," Zelda whines. "We've had many a conversation that doesn't involve a boy. Can't I just rant about him?"

"Yes, you may, I'll give you that in a second, but I'm trying to remember..." Mariel counts on her fingers. "The last two times we've spoken at length I've mentioned this boy, your father, Duke Ubota... my god what a boy-centric life we lead. And I thought Lucy Cavendish was a mess." 

Zelda laughs thinly. Her head aches. There is a maelstrom beckoning her forward. Perhaps she should pray if only to meditate. "Let's resolve then. The next time we speak."

"Hm. But does our awareness of the test nullify—" Zelda gives her a pointed look. "Right, yes. Please, go on Princess."

Queuing up a loud sigh, Zelda lays down, her head on Mariel's tucked up feet. "Yes, he arrived on perfect time, with his perfect walk, and held the sword for my father the King and kneeled at his feet and surrendered it to him. And you know what my father did?"

"Chopped his head right off?"

"He laughed. My father, the King."

"At him or with him?" Mariel asks, flipping closed her book. A good sign something new has piqued her interest. 

"I don't think any I could say either." There is a long pause while she thinks of the interaction and again her head beats in wild anger. "I'm furious. He dropped the 'distant royal' bit almost immediately and was utterly genial with him. Which he won't even do for you."

"Only at Nayru's Feast, like it's a gift or something," Mariel says wistfully. "Not to speak ill of the King, your highness." 

"You're in a rather amusing mood." Zelda narrows her eyes and turns to her friend. "What's this about then? "

"I'm simply enjoying this book quite a bit. I like this one a lot," Mariel says and flips the cover round for Zelda to read. _Passage of Night_. "Honestly the title doesn't say much about the book, but the fearless main character is currently on a teaching sabbatical in 'the old country.' She's a bit funny."

Zelda narrows her eyes further. "That's all?"

"Yes, honest! I'm just feeling very happy to be out and about. The castle has been so stifling these days. Any peace is good." 

They sit there in silence for a bit. Long enough for Mariel to think the coast is clear and open her book. When she does: "He impressed my father and he's done nothing."

"Boy-centric," Mariel murmurs. 

"Found the sword, yes, that will save us and keep us out of harm's way but—oh! It makes my blood boil. I feel..."

She didn't know what she felt. Empty. A bit of anger, but that was subsiding and turning into cold, hard resentment. Distrust, annoyance. But mostly...

"disappointing." Zelda finishes, her hands tucked into each other. "I've tried, you know I've tried. For years for some spark of any sort. And he just comes along..." 

Mariel doesn't respond, but Zelda knows she's listening intently. Zelda doesn't say what lurks behind all this: the sleepy self-hate that dreams up horrendous scenarios in which she is cast out or worse laughed out. She thinks it smarter not to speak them into existence. She is wrong. These nightmares will swirl and melt into her bones if she's not careful—if she lets them sit in her alone. 

"My father was so convivial with him. I felt like second best as if here's the son he's secretly hoped for or something." 

"Come now, we both know that's not how he sees it."

"Do we?" Zelda asks. She knows it's unfair. 

Mariel has no answer for it. 

"What do I do now? Keep praying in hopes something happens? I suppose I should go off now, shouldn't I?"

Now she's being quite unfair. Mariel has nothing to say. She does however squint off into the distance and lick her teeth, pretending to think hard. 

Zelda sighs. "Forgive me, Mariel, I'm taking this out on you."

"It's all right, Princess. I know you don't mean it," Mariel says and looks at her. They both smile. "It'll be fine."

"Yes. Yes."

Zelda looked around her at the courtyard. Yellow, heavy sun alights the stone, brings a patch of brilliance to the fountain in the center, an unruffled surface of bright water. The water stretches away into itself, over itself. She wishes she were water, faintly visible at the bottom. Feels like the top layer, if there is even a layer. A patch of sunlight is twisting through branches, kissing her hands. Zelda thinks about crying. 

"Don't you need to be getting back soon?" Zelda asks and though she doesn't intend it, there's a pointed suggestion in her question. And she feels horrible about it, barging in here and then asking her to leave. 

Mariel, blessed heart, picks up right away and brightly says, "You're right Princess, I don't want to be late." 

They both know she's lying. But there is an undying gratitude beating in Zelda's chest. 

Mariel stands with her book in hand and bows to the Princess. "Your Highness, I must be off. Shall I come by your room later?" 

"I would appreciate that immensely, thank you, Mariel," Zelda says. Her lips are dry. 

Mariel nods and smiles again. "Very well then." With that she is off, walking from the courtyard to the doors and so on down the halls, most likely to her chambers, a series of rooms shared by the wait staff, where a few others will be. Zelda knows Mariel is a bit of a gossip with her, but hopefully, she speaks little about her own state and more so listens to whatever fantastic rumors the staff trade about their new Hero. _Five guards when he was only four years old. Gifted._

That one she's certain will set off fires about his intensity and skill. No doubt as she thinks it he is bragging in the barracks about his skills. Perhaps he's invited new recruits to try him. Most likely they've asked what it's like to speak to the Princess. Her chest tightens. _Oh well she didn't even speak, must've been terrified of me._ In response, these men will tell how she's not shown a single spark of her awesome power, her terrible purpose. And he will know, then, like everyone else, that she is a fraud. 

Zelda jumps up. "I think I will go pray now," she says to no one. It's a bright day but she feels gloomy. She does not expect to clear her head, not really. She doubts she can avoid thinking too long, she knows that of herself. But in an attempt to avoid thinking too long about _him_ , she rushes off to the lower chapel, hands clasped behind her back to give the look of consternation so no one else dares bother her. 

The courtyard is silent for a long week before she will return again to sob.


End file.
